ft 

w-~~...»i_l.l       IQO2 

By  C.   K.  Biukley 


500    COPIES     PRINTED    FROM    TYPE    APRIL     28,     1902 
BV    THE    TMAOOEU8    BARR     PRINTING    CO. 


Gl 


TO    THOSE 
WHO    HAVE    LINGERED    WITH    ME 

FOR    A    WHILE 
AT    THE  CROSSING    OF    OUR    WAYS 


11.7031 


,k 


'•. 


Mr.  Minkk-y's  w..ik  is  n..t  only  the  most  notable-  contribution  yet 
literature  in  California,  but  will  place  its  author  in  the  front  rani 
poets.  The  man  has  sung  because  there  was  musir  in  him.  not  HK  A 

i .-nit  harmonies,  soft  and  sweet,  or  with  the  sweep  of  a  mn 
We  know  not  which  is  the  more  to  be  congratulated,  Mr.  Hinkley  fc 
California  for  Mr.  Hinkl.v.  S,i,  utturnto  Hfe. 

s, 


I  atioi 
fane 

>le 
te 

makft. 
ofte 


TO  THE   OI,D   FRIENDS 

DO  YOU  REMEMBER,  WHEN  OUR  LIVES  WERE  YOUNG, 

HOW  THE  WINDS  AND  THE  WATERS,   THE  SUN  AND  THE  RAIN 
WERE  FILLED  WITH  A  MYSTERY  ALMOST  PAIN? 
HOW  THE  DAYS  STROVE  TO  SPEAK  BUT  COULD  FIND  NO  TONGUE, 
AND  WELLED  IN  OUR  HEARTS  INSTEAD,   AND  SUNG? 

DO  YOU  REMEMBER?     DO  THE  WINDY  HOLLOWS 

STILL  SET  THE  SOUL  TO  THEIR  MELODY? 

DEEP  IN  YOUR  DREAMS  DO  YOU  NOT  SEE 
THE  SUNLIGHT  AND  THE   WHEELING  SWALLOWS, 
THE  CLOUDS  ABOVE  AND  THE  SHADE  THAT  FOLLOWS? 

DO  YOU  REMEMBER?     THE  YEARS  ARE  LONG, 

AND  MEN  MUST  SEEK  FOR  WHAT  IS  NOT. 

THEY  MAY  WELL  FORGET  —  HAVE  YOU  FORGOT?  — 
THE  LIGHT  AND  THE  MIST  AND  THE  WONDERFUL  SONG 
WITH  ITS  FAR-OFF  BURDEN  SWEET  AND  STRONG. 

SISTER,  WE  SAW  THE  STARS  APPEAR; 

AYE,  AND  WE  COUNTED  THEM  ONE  BY  ONE. 

TO-NIGHT  I  WATCHED  AS  WE  HAD  DONE; 
BUT  AH,  THE  MAGIC  AND  THE  FEAR 
OF  THE  STARS  IS  GONE  THIS  MANY  A  YEAR. 

SISTER  AND  FRIENDS,  —  WE  WHO  HAVE  WET 

OUR  CHILDHOOD  FEET  IN  THE  MEADOW  BROOK, 

AND  WE  WHO  HAVE  READ  FROM  THE  SELFSAME  BOOK, 

AND  WHOEVER  HAS  PAUSED   WHERE  OUR  PATHS  HAVE  MET, — 

L,ET  US  REMEMBER.     CAN  WE  FORGET? 


CONTENTS 

IN  DISTANT  FIELDS  (Sonnets) 

"Then  Life  was  golden  at   the  verge" 3 

"A  boy  I  heard  the  distant  bells" 3 

The  West  Wind 5 

Looking  Eastward 6 

The  Mowing 7 

The  Farmhouse 8 

The  Turnpike 9 

In  Early  Spring 10 

The  Lyceum u 

A  Rainy  Day 12 

A  Harvest  Evening 13 

ENCHANTED    GROUND    (Sonnets) 

"Flamboyant  wave  the  wings  of  Fate" 17 

Whither? 19 

Remembered  Shade         .        .        ,        , 20 

Kismet      , 21 

En  Passant 22 

Recompense 23 

My  Love  is  Limned  in  Light 24 

Love's  Silence 25 

Love's  Fulness          .        .        .        , 26 

October .  27 

The  Vision 28 

Into  the  Future 29 

From  the  Heights ,        .  30 

Reply 31 

The  Three  Angels 32-3 

PEBBLES   WET  WITH  THE   SEA    (Sonnets) 

"How  lazily  the  little  bark" 37 

"Out  of  a   land   of  dreams  he  came" 37 

Pebble  Beach 39 

Suggestion 40 

Pan     .                                                                                          ...  41-2 


Merlin          ..•.•.,......43 

Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha 44 

The  Fringed  Gentians 45 

The  Dead 46 

Genius ....47 

History 4S 

ORPHICA    (Sonnets) 

"They  rose  from  dreams  of  battles   fought"           ....  51 

The  Awakening 53 

FROM  THE  DEEPS 

"I  stand  as  one  at  midnight  and  and  alone"    ....  54 

"Out  on  the  bosom  of  the  boundless  Deep"          ...  55 

"Far  from  the  suns  and  tempests  of  the  day"        ...  56 

"And  sometimes  when  the  noisy  winds  are  stayed"   .        .  57 

"But  be  there  sun  or  starlight,  calm  or  storm"      ...  58 

Aftertones 59 

Ultimates 60 

THE  HEART  OF  DAY  (Sonnets) 

"He  walked  the  way  of  smiles  and  tears"        ....  63 

Dawn  and  Sunrise 65 

The  Age  of  Iron 66 

The  Cry 67 

With   Hearts   not  Resonant 68 

To  H.  B.  G 69 

As   Dreams  Forever 70 

To  J.  H.  S.,   M.   D 71 

The  Need 72 

To  H.  M.  B 73 

Poets  We  Call  Ourselves 74 

A  Poet?    You  a  Poet? 75 

'Per  Li  Cui  Preghi"           76 

PICTURES    AND    DREAMS   (Sonnets) 

"The  deed  with  life  is  dripping  wet" 79 

The  Sonnet 8r 

A  Sonnet  Wouldst  Thou  Build 82 

Theocritus         «• .83 


Cupid  and  Psyche        .       *       .        .       .       .        ...        .  84 

Bartolome   Ruiz          .        .        ...        .        .        .        .        .        .  85 

Aucassin  and  Nicolete 86 

Mors  Velata       .  87 

The  Singer 88 

Arthur  and  Guinevere 89 

Rosalind  90 

Amor  Tristis 91 

The  Inept 92 

One  Sin  There  Is 93 

The  Fruit  Girl 94 

Evening 95 

TRISTAN  AND  ISOLT 

I.  The  Potion 96 

II.  The  Sails 97 

Seattle 98 

The  Dramas  of  Shakespeare 99 

BY    THE     FIRESIDE 

The  Wind  Song 103 

To  a  Child 104 

Felicitas    .  105 

Mother-Iyove 106 

A   Voyager 107 

What  the  Chick  Said 108 

Songs  of  a  Shoe 109 

STOPS    OF    VARIOUS    QUIW,S 

"Not  on  land  and  not  on  sea" 113 

Years  and   Change 115 

The  Neophyte 116 

October 117 

The  Parting 118 

Phyllis 119 

To  a  Housewife 120 

The  Wedding  Gown 121 

MAIDEN  FANCIES 

In  the  Hammock 122 


Waiting "3 

Heart  of  the   ROM          • •       •        •  "4 

Through  the  Years I25 

Medea           .....'               »* 

World-Weary •       •  I27 

The   Closed  Gentian       .       .       .       .       .       •       ••      .       .       .129 

Alone 131 

A  Last  Word     .                                     W 

The  Song        .....               '33 

Par,   Far  Away         ....                               ....  '34 

A  Girl '35 

The  Poet  of  the   Doves         .       .  .141 

Baron  Stiegel        .....               '44 

Fate  and  Over-Fate         .                                               ....  149 

Whence?    Whither?       .....               ....  151 

VALUES 

VALUES 

I.  "Would  you  hold  in  your  hand" 155 

II.  "Better  than  the    sharpened  sense"         ....  155 

III.  "There  came  to  him  a  radiant  Dream"  155 

V.  "The  form  and  substance  strangely  join"     ...  156 

VI.  "He  thought  to  build  his  life  and  planned"           .       .  157 

VII.  "Life  it  floweth  like  a  stream" 158 

From  the  Hilltop ,.       .       .  159 

A   Dirge l6° 

To  Omar  Khayyam l6r 

The  Castle  of  Autremem* '7* 

Notes     .               '77 


SONNETS 


IN     DISTANT    FIELDS 


Then  life  was  golden  at  the  verge 
And  filled  with  vast  world-murmurings, 
With  glimpses  like  the  sheen  of  wings, 
Deep  visions  of  a  demi-urge; 
But  all  the  nearer  view  was  dim 
And  other  than  its  use  to  him. 


A  boy  I  heard  the  distant  bells, 
But  straight  the  sound   forgot; 
The  sunset  slanted  o'er  the  dells,— 

I  heeded  not. 

Now,  far  away,  where'er  I  go 
I  see  those  wondrous  sunsets  glow, 
And  faintly  heard  but  ceaselessly 
The  bells  of  boyhood  ring  to  me. 


THE   WEST   WIND 

PALO    ALTO,    CALIFORNIA 

FT1HE   pale-green   poplars  shimmer   in   the   sun, 
jL    And  wave  and   rustle;    the  dry   grasses  sway; 
The  oaks   and   eucalyptus   far  away 
Take  up   a   moaning   music  one   by   one. 

Here   from   the   shadows   mark   the  tremor   run 
Over  the   hillside   to  the   mountains  gray: 
Dim   gray   and   purple,    moveless,    only   they 
Are  silent  in  the  west-wind's  carillon. 

This   is   the   bearer  of   all   mysteries, 

Whose   fleet-winged   cohorts  are   the   messengers 

Bringing   o'er   unseen   mountains  the  dim   roar 

And   surge   and   glitter  of  what  magic   seas 
With   dream-spray   dashing   and   bright   islanders 
And   harps  and   sounding   timbrels  on   the   shore. 


LOOKING  EASTWARD 

SACRAMENTO   VALLEY 


K  great  sun   pours  bis   gold  athwart   the    plain,  — 
JL     Over  the  waving  grasses  srnit   with   light, 
O'er  knee-deep  cattle,    o'er  the   nearer   bight 
With   summit  tremulous   in   the  golden   rain. 

Late   afternoon  !      Already    many    a   lane 
Of  shadow  marks  the  sunlit   mountain-side, 
And   distant   peaks   in    hazy    violet  dyed 
Show   the  long   summer  day    upon   the   wane. 

But  there  are   unseen   mountains   farther   still 

Of  deeper  violet  jutting  to  the  skies, 

And   plains  with   twilight   noises   faint  and    far; 

And    far   ah,    far   beyond   a  valley   lies 
Dreaming   in   darkness,    while  above   the   hill 
Trembles  the  glory  of  the  evening  star. 


THE   MOWING 

THRAGRANCE  of  flowers  and  new-mown  meadow  hay 
JL.    Sun-tipped,    in  swathes  tumultuous  as  seas, 
And  odors,    guessed   at,    of   red   strawberries, 
Blend   with   the  silver   radiance  of  the  day. 

The  clamorous  noise  of  mowing  dies  away, 
Then  comes  again  upon  the  shifting   breeze 
To  where  a  boy  under   the  apple  trees 
Lies  deep  in  tumbled  grasses,    weary  of  play. 

Before   him   gleams  the   far-off  city,    white 
As   if  transfigured,    with   a   halo  on ; 
Beyond  are  mountains  vague  and  mystical. 

The  city  and  the  mountains  lure  with  might: 
One  fore-glimpse  of  the  world  and  that  is  all 
Again  the  clatter,  and  the  dream  is  gone. 


THE   FARMHOUSE 

A  WIDE  veranda,    cool,    with   lisp  of  leaves, 
Fragrant   with  clambering  roses!     See,   there  whirrs 
That  feathered   rainbow  to  the   nest  of  hers 
Hid  in   the  clematis  vines   under  the  eaves. 

Faint  from   a  meadow  near,    a   brooklet  grieves, 
Silver  in  emerald,     and   naught  else  stirs 
Save  that,    beyond,   the   bending   harvesters 
Follow  and   bind   in   rows  and   toss  the  sheaves. 

We  enter:     through    bowed   shutters   sunbeams   fall 
Sparsely,    and   all    is  shadowy   in   gloom ;  — 
Dimly   beyond   there   widens   hall  on   hall. 

We  hear  the   minutes   ticking   slowly   where 
A    white-capped   woman   knitting   in    her   chair 
Rocks  in   the  golden  silence  of  the   room. 


THE   TURNPIKE 

THREE  furlong  lengths  of  dazzling  white;  no  breeze; 
White  dust  in  wreaths  from  traffic  to  and  fro. 
There   crunching,    creaking,    laden   wagons   go; 
There  hoofs  keep  rhythmic  time  on  echoing  keys; 

And   there  a  wheelman   threads   his   way    with   ease, 
Silent  and  swift ;    a  herd  of  cattle,    slow, 
Dense-packed,    with   nostrils  red  and   heads   hung  low 
Skirt  the   sparse  shadows  of  the   locust  trees. 

Thus   hour  by   hour  the   varied   retinue 
Traverse  the  sunlit  space  then  pass  from   view 
Down   the  long   hill-slopes   into  lands   unknown ; 

And   sometimes  when   the   day   is   nearly   done 
The   echo   from   a   bridge   far  off  is   blown 
In  long  low   rumblings   crossing   one   by   one. 


IN   EARLY  SPRING 

UNDER   the   blossoms  of  the   birchwood   trees 
To  the  last  arbutus  beneath   the  pine! 
Then  in   the  sunlight  where  star-grasses  shine, 
Seek   out  the   violets   upon   your  knees. 

Down    for  the   white   bloodroot!      Now   storm    with    ease 
The  rocky  castle  of  the  columbine : 
Plunder  and   pillage!  sip  the  honey-wine, 
Then    to   the   uplands   for  anemones ! 

Thus  up  the  moist  slope   newly   carpeted, 

Ruthless   and   glad   as  nature,    lungs  stretched   wide! 

But  on   the   knoll    upon   the   bird-foot   bed, 

Counting  our  gathered   riches  we  abide, 

And   through   green   vistas  see  the  country   side 

Sloping   in   sunlight   to   the   mountain's   head. 


10 


THE   LYCEUM 

jrTlIS  evening:   the  first  large  stars  look  down 

JL    On   fields  where  all  the  golden  afternoon 
Above  the  huskers  hung  a  pallid  moon, — 
It  tints  with   silver  now  the  somber  brown. 

From   shadowy   meadow   farms  long-laned,    and   town 
Nestled   in   quiet   shade   they   come,    and   soon 
They  gather,    conscious   school-boys,    men   rough    hewn 
In  brawn  and  brain,    with   lover,    lass    and   clown. 

Then  in   the  dim-lit  school   room   breathe   again 
In  ampler  space  the  glorious  deeds  of  men ; 
New  Tullys  open  wide   the  golden  bars: 

Breathless  we  listen  from  the  glowing  hights; 
And  homeward,  looking  up,  we  see  the  lights 
Of  the  great  city  blended  with  the  stars. 


ii 


A    RAINY    DAY 


0' 


VRR    the   wide,    half-emptied   lofts  of   grain, 
The   dusty   rafters  where   the   brown    bats  cling, 
And   gloomy   beams   with    swallows   twittering, 
Sounds  the  dull   thrumming  of  the  ceaseless  rain. 

The  wind's  low   moaning   grows,    then   sinks  again; 
The   brook's   far   rush    is   stilled   to   murmuring; 
Wet   branches  sweep   the   roof   with    measured   swing ; 
And,    harshly   creaking,    shifts   the   weather-vane. 

The  pigeons  overhead,    with   irised   blue 
Dim    in   the   faded   light,    flutter  and   coo 
Where   the   great   girder  o'er  the   mow   is   hung. 

Below,    half   hid   in   odorous   meadow   hay, 
There  lies   a   boy   adream,    hearing   that  day 
Echoes  of  songs  that  never  shall     be    sung. 


12 


A    HARVEST   EVENING 

npHE  west  is  glowing  redder  than  a  rose; 
X  The  swallows  wheel  and  wheel.     Down  the  long  lane, 
Swaying   and    creaking   with   its   weight  of   grain 
The  wagon  laden  with  the  harvest  goes. 

Fainter  the  sound  of  wheels  and  tramping  grows; 

The   cedar  gloom   surrounds  them;     like  a   door 

It  closes;   all  is  still   ....    On  oaken   floor 

A  tramp  of  hoofs  ....  Silence  .  .  The  west  still  glows 

The  cattle  leave  the  barn  and  slowly   pass 
Through  the  wide  bars  into  the   meadow  grass ; 
Upon  the  crimson  of  the   pool  beyond, 

Their  shadows   fall.      The   boy   puts   up   the   bars, 
Then  stands  upon  the   border  of  the   pond; 
And   lo,    the   glitter    of  the   first   faint   stars. 


SONNETS 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


Flamboyant  wave  the  wings  of  Fate 
And  all  of  life  bursts  into  sound; 

The  floweret  by  the  garden  gate 

Would  grow  to  music,  —  will  not  wait; 

But  men  are  inarticulate, 
And  far  beyond  the  utmost  bound 

Of  sight  and  sense  the  world  goes  round. 


WHITHER? 

WHITHER,    ah,    whither   blows  the  restless  wind 
Swaying   the   poplars   as   it  passes   by, 
Blowing   the   one   lone   bird   across  the   sky, 
Leaving   the   one   lone   changing   cloud    behind? 

This   is   the   bard   with   fingers   unconfined 
Sweeps   into   concord   scarce   heard   murmurings,  — 
For  whom   the   Soul  unweaves  from  tense  harp-strings 
The   withered   weeds  and   grasses  o'er  them   twined*. 

The   earliest  dreams   whereon   the   fancy   fed. 
Visions  of  beauty   that  the  footsteps  led, 
Hopes,    Fears,    and   Love  —  Love   flowing   garmented, 
Noiseless,    with   hair   unbound   and    backward    blown, 
And   roses   falling  —  long   (ah   whither?)   fled, 
Come  trembling  to  the   Harper's   hollow  tone. 


REMEMBERED     SHADE 

AS   ONE   that   from   the    dust  and   glare   at    noon 
Enters   a   pathway    dark    with    fragrant    bowers, 
Where   drooping    branches  are   and   shrubs   and    flowers 
And   vines  voluptuous   in    long   festoon, 

And    there,    with    birds   and    water-songs   in    tune, 
Twining   the   maiden-hair  and   violets, 
The   weary    way    before    him    quite   forgets 
Until   he  sees  the  glare  again  —  too  soon; 

So   I,    in    my    high    noon   of  life,    have   staid 
In    pleasant   paths  of   love   an    hour  or   two, 
Forgetting   all    and    seeing    all    anew 
And    hearkening   all   music   that   was    made,  — 
But    now   the   long    bare    highway    I    pursue 
With    nought   to   cheer    me    but    remembered    shade. 


20 


KISMET 

A  DREAMY   tread  of  passers  to  and   fro; 
A  sound   of  nurse-girls'    idle   gossiping; 
The   sun   and   shadows  where   the   children   swing; 
The   naiads   veiled   by   silver  overflow, 

With   grim   chimeras   sputtering    below 
Where   full   bowls   drip   and   sparrows  preen  the  wing; 
All   these,    upon   the   rude   bench   loitering, 
He   saw   and  heard   as  figures   in   a  show. 

But,    lost   in   self,    he   neither  saw   nor   heard 
Her   whom    the   years   had   held   for   him   alone,  — 
She   lingered    but  a  moment,    then  was  gone; 

And   when  the   waters   fell   in   fuller  tone 
And   roses   bent,    his   heart  was   strangely   stirred, 
He  wondered  why,    forgot,    and   plodded   on. 


21 


EN  PASSANT 

A  DOWN   the   dusty    road   at  close   of  day 
The   wheelman   glides  alone:     the   shadows   fall 
With   somber  lines  athwart  the   path,    and   tall 
And   grim   pursue  him  slowly   down   the  way. 

Before   him,   outlined  in  the  fading  ray 
And  glorified,    beside  the   broken  wall 
There  stands  a  maid,   who  lures  with   silver  call 
The  cattle   home  and   bides  their  long  delay. 

They,    lowing,    nipping  one   last   blossom,    go 
From  out  the  dusky   shadows  up   the  lane; 
Again  the  maiden  calls,   again  they  low. 

She  turns  and  sees  the  stranger  gliding   by ; 
He  sees  the  dreamlight  in   her  tender  eye  — 
Is  gone  —  and  twilight  deepens  o'er  the  plain. 


J2 


RECOMPENSE 


IWIIvIv   not  know   her   nearer  lest   I   lose 
A  long   sweet   dream   of  light  and   innocence 
Lest  from  the   vision   fade  its   magic   hues 
Or  all  the   world   be  won   at   Soul's   expense. 

Against  the   real   I   will  make  defense; 
Be  wary  of   the   toils   where   none   may   choose, 
Of  tresses  that  entangle   him   who  views, 
And   dark   eyes  thralling   with   mute   eloquence. 

Once  on   my   lonely   path   there   was   a   gleam 
That   dimmed   not   in   the  light  of   common  day  ; 
Now   in   my    heart  of   hearts   I   have  a   dream 
To  lift  my   life   and   beckon  on   for  aye, 
For  be  the   image  gold  or   common   clay 
To    BE   has   not   been   other  than  TO   SEEM. 


MY   LOVE   IS   LIMNED   IN   LIGHT 

I  KNOW  not  how  —  my   Love   is  limned   in   light; 
Where'er   she    walks  a  thousand   presences 
Unseen   surround  her,    bending  on  their  knees 
And    Holy,    Holy!    singing,    stoled   in    white. 

Or  hovering  in   numbers  infinite, 
With   censers  swinging  to  their  litanies, 
And   sheen  of  slanted   wings   for  witnesses, 
They   half  conceal  my   Love   from   mortal  sight. 

Once,    only  once,    and  ended   all  too  soon  — 
Unguarded  were  the  windows  of  her  eyes  — 
The   woman   soul   looked   out   in   glad   surprise; 
But  when  she  drooped   the  lashes   dark  and   long, 
Lo,    all   the   waiting   ages   sprang   to   song 
And    all   my    life   vibrated    into   tune. 


-'4 


COVE'S  SILENCE 

WHAT   mood  is  this  that  marries   only   eyes, 
That  freezes  all  the  soul's  sweet  turbulence 
To  silence  or  the   silent-cold   pretense 
Hidden   in    Form.      Deep   are  the   midnight    skies, 

Mellowed   in   light   below    the  valley   lies  .  .  . 
Now  she   is   present  unrevealed   to  sense; 
The   night   is   voluble  with    eloquence 
Long   pent,    and   music  of   her  low  replies. 

Thus  on   a  starry   midnight  long   ago 
With   the   full   moon   upon   the   sapphire   seas 
Tipping   with   silver  light  the  orchard   trees, 

A  maiden  in  her  passion  pure  as  snow, 
Rose-rich,  and  full  as  complete  harmonies 
Made  music  with  the  name  of  Romeo. 


LOVE'S  FULNESS 

rpIIERE  are  three  moments  in  the  life  of  man 
JL     That  cast  a   radiance  on   all    his  seeing. 

One  is  the  child-glimpse  to  the  depth  of  Being: 

It  makes  him   Nature's  cosmopolitan  ; 

One   yields   him   larger   insight  in   the   plan 

Of  the  world,  —  the   Vision   Beautiful  of  youth 

Caught  in  a  maiden's  glance,  that  halos  Truth 
Fairer  than   painter  or  than   poet   can. 
The   third    is  when   a   soul   imperial 
Unwraps  its  folds  of   form,    steps  from    its  throne, 
Like  the  First  Mother  cleaves  to  him   alone. 
This  is  Love's   fulness,    holy,    mystical: 
The  melody  of  life  takes  overtone 
Making  one  music  till  the  shadows   fall. 


26 


OCTOBER 

WHEN   we   are  old !     the  summer,    Love,    is   sped, 
The  leaves  are  gold,  the  birds  have  flown  away ; 
Will  love,    too,    leave  us  when  the   hair   is  gray  ? 
Will  life   still  linger  when   the   heart  is  dead  ? 

Look,    Love,    the  skies   and   river   now   are   red ! 
Look   in   my   eyes,    Love,    look,    are  they   not   blue? 
The   daylight  dies,    Love  —  will   our  love   die  too 
When   youth   is   ended   and   the   years   are   fled  ? 

Dear   Heart  of  mine,    no  season,    no   regrets, 
No  change  can   be:     Love   sets   no  transient  snare 
Hid   in   the  light  upon   a  woman's   hair, 
Rustle  of  silks,    or  scent  of  violets ; 
If   he  once   enter    he   is  ever  there 
Though   pulse   grow   feeble  and  the   brain   forgets. 


THE   VISION 

METHOUGHT,    dear  Love,    I   stood   upon  a  shore, 
A   pleasant  shore ;     white   clouds   went  floating  by 
Tracing  dark  shadows,    and   the   sea-birds   high 
Circled  and   wide.      The  ocean's  solemn   roar 
Blended  with  all:     its  rolling  bosom   bore 
White  winged    barks   that    bounded    gallantly 
Over  its  blue  to  dim   uncertainty. 

Beyond   the   breakers   hoarse,    their   heads   full   hoar, 
Beyond   the   snowy    sails,    beyond   the   skies 
I  gazed,    and   dreamed — of   what   I   can    not   tell, 
When   a   soft   hand   was   laid    in    mine,    brown   eyes 
Looked   into   mine   with    love    ineffable. 
The   lips   half   parted   were,    to  speak;     it  seemed 
I  stooped  and  kissed  them,    Love.      All  this  I  dreamed. 


28 


INTO  THE   FUTURE 

OLOVE,    dear   Love,    come  lay   thy   hand   in   mine 
And  bid  me   deep  to  read   those  peerless  eyes, 
Telling   their   richest  lore  with   no   surmise, 
^Drinking   their  lessons  as   men  drink   rare  wine. 

Is  this  the   book  wherein   on   every   line 
Is  writ  one  word   in  ways  that   still  surprise 
With  pictures  new?    ....    But  see,    a   shadow   lies, 
Deep,    trembling,    which    I   cannot   all  divine. 

I   read   it  now,    dear  Love;     you   dimly  see 
The  visions  of  the  larger  life  unfold ; 
Now   quivering   for  the   new  world,    now   you   shrink 

Back  to  the  old.      O,    dare  to  leave  the   brink, 
And  fear  not,    for  whate'er  the  future  hold 
Our    love   will   keep   us   happy,    young,   and   free. 


29 


FROM  THE   HEIGHTS 


WHY  linger,    Love,    within   the  vale   below 
Amid   the  dews  and  damps?     The  view  is  wide, 
Upon  the  lofty   Peak,    and   I   shall  guide 
To  regions  of  delight  none  else   may   know. 

Green   is  the   valley,    pleasant   in   its   flow 
The   river  with   the   rushes   at   its  side, 
The   meadows  with   their  violets   blue   and   pied, 
And  shadows  that   forever  come  and  go. 

But   fairer  are   the    heights  that  we  shall   tread, 
Brighter  the   sunset  splendors   that   uprear 
Their  minarets  of  gold,    the  stars  outspread 

Lordly   at  night.     Then  tremble  not,    nor  fear 
O   Love,   to  come:    its  beauty  will   be  fled 
And   all  the  joy    be  pain   save  thou   be   near. 


T"1  ARE  WELL,    farewell!      I   cannot   see   the  way; 
JL.       I   faint   for  weariness  and   lose   my   hold. 
The  view  is   wide,    but  ah,    the  peaks  are  cold, 
And   now  with   mists  the  world   beneath   is  gray. 

And  —  was   it   but  a  dream  ?  —  I   thought  la   ray 
Pierced  the  cloud-wrappings,  touched  their  sides  with  gold, 
And,    falling  on   the  valley  and   the  wold, 
Lit  up   the  fields  where   happy  children   play. 

Can    it   be  sin   and  weakness   that    I   sigh  — 
Deeming  that  even   lowly   things   have   worth  — 
For   hands  that   reach,    and   eyes  that  look   in   mine. 

I  know   I   am  not  worthy  to  be  thine ; 
I   would   not  tempt  thee   down   to  things  of   earth, 
And   yet,    O   Love,    be  near  me  or   I   die. 


THE  THREE    ANGELS 


AN   ANGEL  entered  at  the   minster  door 
When  all   within  was   newly   garnished; 
The   ruddy   flame  lambent   about  the   head 
And   glowing   vesture   echoed   a   far   roar 
From   nave   and   choir  and   dim    aisles  vaulted   o'er, 
As   from   tall  forests   in   the   gold   and   red 
Of  a  vast  sunset.  .  .  .  Silently   he  sped, 
And   save   for  echoes  all  was  as   before. 

Another  entered,    and  the   minster  grew 
To  holy   silence,    for  the  face  was  veiled. 
It  seemed   the   virgin's   pictured   lips   were   paled 
Where  the   dead    Christ  down  from   the   cross   was  laid: 
A   golden   incense   hid   the   dome  from   view; 
Men   built  a  shrine,   and   there  the  angel   staid 


II 

ANOTHER  came  upon  a  holy-day: 
A  silver  star  above   the   aureole 
Threw  singing  light ;     about  the   snow-white   stole 
And  the   white   rose  that  on   the   bosom   lay 
Were  sound   and   sunlight  in   sweet   interplay. 
They   lit  the   pillared   nave ;   the  organ's   roll 
Sank  into  soft  clear   notes   as   when   a  soul 
Not  long   redeemed   mid   splendors  kneels   to  pray. 

The  clouded   incense,    scattered   by   the   light, 
Fell  from   the  shining   dome  in   silver    rain ; 
The  emblazoned   saints   beamed   glorious   again, 
And   the  sad   angel's   veil    faded    from   sight 
Leaving  the   crystal  tears:     gone  was   the   pain, 
And   at  one   shrine  the  angels  knelt  till  night. 


33 


SONNETS 


PEBBLES   WET   WITH   THE  SEA 


How   lazily  the  little  bark 

Is  rocking  on  the  deep ! 
But  fathoms  down  in   caverns  dark 

The  ocean   Dangers  sleep. 


Out  of  a  land  of  dreams  he  came 
By  a  high  gate  that  bears  no  name, 
Nor,  blinded,   could  he  rightly  see 
If  it  be  horn  or  ivory. 


PEBBLE   BEACH 

PESCADERO,    CALIFORNIA 


of  onyx,    beryl,    chrysoprase, 
\^\    Opal  and   pearl,    for   here   all   gems  that  are 
Treasured   in   hoard  of  emperor  or   czar, 
Heaped  in  the  sunlight  lie   beneath  our  gaze. 

The  lonely   sail   fades  on   the   watery   ways; 
The  huge,    white-crested   billows  rear  afar 
And   break   in   thunder  on  the  rocky   bar: 
We   mark  alone  the  pebbles'  diverse   rays. 

Our  whole  lives  long  we  play   upon   a  strand  ; 
Stooping   to  choose  out  gaud  or  glittering  gem 
For  place   in   coffer  or  on   diadem. 

The  surges  rise  and   fall:    heedless  we  stand 
Dazed   by   the  glamour  of  the   shimmering   sand 
And   pebbles   wet  with   the   sea  that   rounded  them. 


39 


SUGGESTION 

ALL   DAY   the  breakers  thunder,    and   their   roar 
Strives,    but  in   vain,    to  reach   the  soul   within; 
Unheeded  on  the  portal   falls  the  din 
Of   surges  at   their   elemental   war. 

Inland   upon   a   crag   that    beetles  o'er 
The  world   below,    seeming  as   it  had   been 
A  seat  for  guardian  gods,    I  wait  to  win 
The  secret  altar,    but    I   find   no  door. 

But   in   the   night-time,    when   the   silence   draws 
Priestlike  the   heart's  confessions,    while  we  speak 
Of   home  or   friends,    a   little   word,    a  key 
Forgotten   now,    unlocks   the   mystery: 
The  curtains  of  the   future  are  as  gauze; 
The   hills  of   life   are  lit  from   base  to  peak. 


PAN 

UPON  the  outer  precincts  of  a  wood 
I   wandered   mourning    "Pan   is  dead; 
Here   lies   his   pine-wreath   sere   and   red, 
His   broken   pipe   wherein   he  poured   his  mood." 
But  in  the  leafy    inner    depths   I   stood 
Silent,    and   a   tremor  ran : 
"The  great  god  Pan,   the  great  god  Pan!" 
From    ferny   rock  and   tree  o'er  many   a   rood. 

I   peered,    and  there  hidden  in  deepest  shade 
Beneath   a   rock  with   ivies   was  the  god.  .  .  . 
A   silver  trickling  moistened   all  the  sod.  .  .  . 
I   saw   the  goat   foot  and   the  shaggy   thighs, 
The   curling   beard,    the   graveness   in   his  eyes. 
I   gazed ;     he   took   his   hollow   pipe  and   played : 


Pan       "Pale   Hecate   has  cooled   her  black-blood  pyres 
And   Cytherea's  temple  stones  are   mold; 
But  now  as   in   the   buoyant  age  of  gold 
On  inner  shrines  she   builds  her  altar   fires. 
"To  human   hearts  remain  the  same    desires, 
The  Child  is  clothed  in   fashions   manifold; 
Dodona's  oaks  still  rustle  as  of  old, 
Apollo  strikes  his  chords  on  other  wires." 

In  every   age  the   Poet  gives  a  tongue 

Of  music   to  the  jarring  multitude, 

For  if  he  greatly   strike  in   any   mood 

The  sounding   human   harp   forever  young, 

It  vibrates  now  as  when  the  golden   brood 

Of  Saturn  ruled  and   broad-browed   Homer  sung. 


MERLIN 

NINE  times  her  wimple  round  the   bush  she  drew, 
Nine  times  repeated  the  unhallowed  spell 
The  mage   himself   had   taught  her  all  too  well, 
Then  left  him  sleeping  there  who  dimly  knew. 

The  sinking  sun  long  shadows  o'er  him  threw, 
The  white  thorn  blossoms  faded  where  they    fell, 
The  grasses  round   his   hoary  temples  grew, 
And  at  their  roots  the  field-mouse   built  her  cell. 

Summer  and  winter  there  in  slumberous  ease, 
Mute  save   for  one  word   whispered,    "Vivien," 
Far  hidden   in   the   shadowed   vale   he   seems ; 

But  who  can   say   what  vast  world-harmonies 
Vibrating   broken   in   the   deeds  of  men 
Ring  where  he  lies  deep  sunken  in  his  dreams. 


43 


DON  QUIXOTE   DE  LA   MANCHA 

WHO  sees  the  world  aright  and   who  awry? 
Basin  or  helmet?      Aye,   or  whole   cuirasses, 
Similia  similibus.      Time  passes, 
And,    brother,    ere  a  hundred  years  roll  by, 
Pray  what's  the  odds  if  you   it  was  or  I 
That  saw  the  true  Dulcinea?      Country  lasses, 
Broad-faced,    bare-armed,    with   panniers  and   asses, 
Or  palf  reyed   princess  ?  —  who   shall    testify  ? 
Redoubted  knight  of  company  numerous! 
Milton   is  of  it,  —  Caesar,    Dewey,    Dante,  — 
Each   man  and   age   on   special   Rosinante. 
Now  and  again  we  hear  our  neighbor's   neighing, 
And  we,    stilling  our  own's  sonorous  braying, 
Follow  adream  with   dukedoms  marvelous. 


44 


THE   FRINGED   GENTIANS 

TO  J.  H    S.,   M.  D. 

rpHERE  on  the  border  of  the  little  wood, 
JL     Under  the  glamour  of  the   bending   skies, 
Regal  in   robe  and   fringe  of   Tyrian   dyes, 
Glad   to  the   quivering  leaf  and   stem   they   stood. 

This   moment,   friend,    I   sat  in   pensive   mood 
And  knew  again  with   you   the  glad   surprise, 
Gazing   upon   the  marvelous  show  with   eyes 
Wide  open  at  the  conscious  multitude. 

Whose  is  the  title  to  the   paltry   field? 
We  take,    nor  leave   him   poorer  than   we   found: 
His   be   the  toil,    the  care.      Though   lawyer's   fee, 
Nor  tax,    nor  tithes,    nor  sordid   rents  we   yield, 
This   boundless  acre   of  enchanted   ground 
Is  yours  and   mine   in   perpetuity. 


45 


THE   DEAD 

I  WALKED  the  garden  of  my   years  gone  by, 
'Twas  midnight  and  the  heavens  were  wondrous  fair; 
I  lingered  where  the  lilies  here  and   there 
Bent  dim   beneath   the   vastness  of  the   sky. 

Roses,    although    I   saw  them   not,    were   nigh 
And   lent   their   fragrance   to  the   healing   air, 
But  with   me  and  around   me  everywhere 
There  were  the  dead,   the    dead  that  cannot  die. 

I   knew  them  in  the  breathing  hush  of  trees, 
Their  voices   in   the   starry   silences, 
And   then   I   saw  how  in  our  human  lot 

They  mingle,    entering  by   hidden  ways, 
Guests  in  this  banquet  house  of  nights  and  days, 
Supping  and   rising,    and  we  know  it  not. 


GENIUS 

OUT  of  the  misty  years  was   heard   a  call, 
Deep  unto  deep,    and  now  the  winds  are  stayed: 
"Lo,    it  is   I,    O    Soul,    be   not  afraid!"  — 
And  then  the  words  were  low  and  musical; 
The  mists  and  darkness  lifted  like  a  pall, 
And   there  was  light.      He  heard   the  music  made 
And   saw,   upon   the   flood   of   Being   laid, 
All   things  in   rhythm   to   its   rise   and   fall. 

Closely   he   holds  the  secret  of  the  years, 
His  lips  are   sealed   like  theirs  that   have  not   heard; 
But  now  and  then   he  speaks  a  random   word, 
And  men  that  hearken  thrill  with   hopes  and  fears, — 
Or  sings  a   note,    short,    broken,    like   a   bird, 
And   the   vast  overtones  the  spirit  hears. 


47 


HISTORY 

STRANGE  shouts  with  vast  world-echoes  in  the  morn, 
White  towers  and   temples  in   forgotten   reigns, 
Forgotten  wars   upon   the  windy   plains 
Reverberated  to  the  days  unborn ! 

With   blood-stained  steps  her  altar   stairs  are  worn: 
Myriads  of  feet   have   worn   away   the   stains; 
Man's  SempiUrnum   in  a  thousand   fanes 
Reared  upon  ruin  she  has  laughed  to  scorn. 

Slowly   men   weave  the   fabric   strand   by   strand, 
Costly,    in  colors  Tyrian  dyed   and   gold; 
Blindly   they   grope,  but  guided   by   a  Hand. 

Slowly  the  Sibyl  leafs  her  blotted  book: 
Beyond  her  hand  she  will  not  let  us  look, 
But  blasts  his  sight  who  reads  it  over-bold. 


SONNETS 


ORPHICA 


They  rose  from  dreams  of  battles  fought 
And  stormed  the  frowning  battlements, 
And  in  the  twilight  pitched  their  tents 

Upon  the  farthest  plains  of  thought. 


THK   AWAKENING 

I    SEE   the  mystery   of  life   anew, 
Bright  angels  have  passed   by   me:     I   have   heard 
A  whirr  of  wings,   and  voices  in  adieu. 
Now  all  that   seems   is   hushed,    scarcely   are  stirred 
The  curtains  of  the  soul,    and  all  things  seem 
Brooding,    and   big  with   portents   like  the   night. 
But  now   I   thought   I   saw   the   distant  gleam 
Of   angel  pinions   in   the  western  light, 
And   heard   the   fading   music :     then   it   rolled 
In   floods  of  living  sound;     and   as  they   swept 
Around,    in  whispered   awe   they   spoke   and   told 
The  secrets  of   the  universe.      I   kept 
The   fragments   that   I   heard :     now  all   things   are 
Lit  with   a  glory   not  of  sun  or  star. 


53 


FROM  THE   DEEPS 

I   STAND   as  one  at  midnight  and   alone, 
Musing,    before  the  wide   inscrutable  sea: 
He  hears  the  sullen   breakers'   distant  moan 
And  sees  the  billows  rolling  restlessly; 
He  sees  the  white  foam  gleam   unweariedly 
And   hears  the  far-off  ocean   Voices  groan; 
And  mingling  in  a  subtile  overtone, 
The   shattered   moonlight   weaves   in    mystery. 
It   is   not  sea   that   moans,    not   sea   but   soul, 
His  own ;    the  tides  are  pulse-beats  and   the   roar 
Is  music  of  his  own;    the   weird   sea  knoll 
Falls   from  the  deeps  of  life;    and   evermore 
He   stands  alone  and   hears  the   untiring   roll 
Of  restless  tides  upon  the  sounding   shore. 


54 


Out  on  the  bosom  of  the  boundless   Deep  From  the 

There   heaves   a  curbless   billow ;    on   its   breast  ™ 

The  long    cold   star-streams  like    an   unloved   guest 

Linger  alone  and  silent  vigil  keep. 

A   million   sparkling   droplets  lightly  leap 

White  in  the  broken  star-shine  of  the  crest, 

Then   to  the  tideless  gloom   they   sink  to  rest 

In  long   tranquillity   of  endless  sleep. 

A   drop  of  these  am   I,    the  world  the  wave, 

Nature   the   boundless   Deep.     Thence  did   I   flow, 

Thence,    and  in   silence,    I   shall  sink  anon 

With   all  that  was  and   is.     This  is  the  grave 

Wide  with   mysterious  will,    where  all  shall   go, 

But  though   the  drop   shall  sink   the  wave  rolls  on. 


55 


From   the      Far   from   the   suns  and   tempests  of  the   day, 
eePs  Far  from  the  stars  and  tempests  of  the  night, 

Down  to  the  tideless  shadows  where  the  light 
Faints   wearied,    it  shall   find   its   lonely   way. 
Bright  on   the   surface   will   the   sunlight   stay 
Warming   the   sea-bird's   breast,    the   sky   be   blue, 
The   M*r  ocean   sound   its  dirges   ever^itt*^ 
The  moonbeams   quiver  and   the   starlight    play. 
But  there,    unruffled   by   the  shocks  of  sense, 
The  soul,    deep   sunken  in   the   Soul  of   All, 
Yields  to  a  silent,    subtler  influence, 
And,    thrilling   to  each   drop  of   flashing   spray, 
Vibrating   to   the   billows'    rise  and   fall, 
Feels  the   far  life   in   every   creek   and   bay. 


And  sometimes  when  the  noisy  winds  are  stayed,  From  the 

When   the   rude   shock  of  waves  has   died  away  ' 

And   all  is   silent  round   the   couch   of   Day, 

As  if  the  Master  of  the  Music  laid 

A   hand  upon   all   harsher  notes  and   played 

In  hushed  and  faintly   throbbing   undertone, 

Leaving   rich  silence  when  the  soul  has  flown, 

When  all  is  o'er  and  the  last  prayer  is  said,  — 

Then   are  there  tremors   not  of  wind  or  tide, 

Vibrations  not  of  sunlight  or   of  star: 

Each  drop   upon  the  moving   breast  asleep, 

Feels  the  pulsation  of  the   mighty    Deep, 

Hears  it  as   faint  soul-music   from   afar; 

And   holy   calm   pervades  the  waters  wide. 


57 


Front  the      But  be  there  sun  or  starlight,    calm  or  storm, 
The  drop  is  ever  subject  to  the  sea, 
Mirrors   its   moods  and    blue   immensity, 
Cold   with   its  cold,    and   with    its  warmth   is   warm. 
In  men  the  formless   Nature  puts  on   form, 
Hence  judgment  wisely   prates  of  ME   and   THEE, 
And   impotently   struggling  to  be   free 
Would   stem   the  ocean   with   a  puny   arm. 
The  tide  of  time  sweeps  on,    we  with  the  tide, 
And   still   the   breakers   thunder  on   the  shore: 
Will  we  or  nill  we,    with  the  sea  we  ride, 
Till   deafened   by   the   immeasurable   roar 
We  heed  not  the  long   Impulse  in  our  pride, 
And   heeding  not  believe  we   hear  no  more. 


AFTERTONES 

PTIHE)   morning   crimsons  long   have  turned  to  gray, 
JL     And  the  deep   harmonies   ceased   one   by  one; 
Still  there   is  glitter  in   the   noonday   sun 
And  lesser  notes,    not  unmelodious,    sway. 
Now   I   have   seen  and   heard ;     I   go  my   way 
Happy   in  something   ended   or   begun, 
Rejoicing   as  each  web   of  will   is  spun, 
Glad    for  the   warmth   and   light  of  common  day. 
And   still  the  doors  are  wide  —  there  are  no  keys ; 
I   hearken   at  my   tasks   and   hear  afar 
The   roaring  of  the   multitudinous  seas 
And   see   the  glitter  where   the   breakers  are ; 
Then   round   my   life   there   rain  sweet  melodies 
And   shines   a  glory   not  of  sun  or  star. 


59 


ULTIMATES 

f  Inn  HE   highest  truth   is  very   near  the   sod, 

JL     "It  is  not  far  from   beauty  up  to  heaven; 
"The  soul   with  open  eye  can   look  on  God, 
"The   folds  that  wrap   the   spirit  are   not  seven; 
"A  little  child   is  always  in  the  light, 
"But  men  are   blinded   by  the  strenuous  will; 
"The  YEA  and   NAY  can  never  lead  aright, 
"Nor  judgment  taste  the  Hippocrenean   rill; 
"But  labor  is  the  God's  creative  seal, 
"And     knowledge  is  the  lesser  harmony; 
"The  humblest  task  the  Vision  will  reveal 
"If  men  will  only  open  eyes  to  see:" 
These   are  the  truths  in  every   time  and  tongue 
To  every   tune   by   seer  and   poet  sung. 


60 


SONNETS 


THE   HEART  OF   DAY 


He  walked  the  way  of  smiles  and  tears 
Through  shadows  dark  and  meadows  green; 
But,  come  from  music  of  the  spheres, 
Heard   not  the  broken   notes  therein. 
When  lo,   the   harmonies  unheard, 
He  woke  to  sound  of  bee  and  bird, 
And  found  the  golden  strain  again 
Along  the  various  ways  of  men. 


DAWN  AND   SUNRISE 

SANTA    CLARA    VALLEY 


E   oaks   and   rose-encumbered  gables  loom 
JL     Out  of  the   indistinguishable   gray, 
And   from   a   hundred   farm-yards   far  away 
And   slumberous,    the  sounds  of   morning   come. 
The  birds  upon  the  branches  still  are  dumb. 
But  see  !    the   sinuous  lines  of  mist  that  lay 
Hiding   the   deep   ravines  melt  into  day, 
And  o'er  the  mountains  to  a   rose   in   bloom 

Opens  the  East.      Its  gold  and  crimson  spills 
On  turquoise  seas.     Lighting  the  western    hills, 
Marking   in   shade  the  oaks   with   dew   impearled, 
The   rising   cattle,    and   each   stem   of   wheat, 
The  long  slant  sunbeam   strikes  athwart  the  world; 
And   the  great   heart  of  day   begins  to  beat. 


THE   AGE   OF   IRON 

TO    H.    M      B. 


w 


HAT  men  are  these?    They  would  be  buying,  selling  ; 
They   deem  the  good  they   touch   the  only   good. 
They   rear  their   fanes,    cement  with   sweat  and   blood 
The  lofty   frames   wherein   no   God    has  dwelling. 

The  waters  of  the  Spirit  would   be  welling; 
They   freeze  them   into  forms  of  stone  and   wood, 
And   who  the  sacrilege   rebukes,    with   rude 
Unholy   hands  they   scourge   for   his   rebelling. 

Is   it   not   pity   that  there  should    be   need 
For  a   high    soul   to  leave   its   heritage 
To  gain   the   means  to   use   it  ?  —  yea,    should   give 
Itself   the   hardened   mint-marks  of   the   age, 
And  jingle  on   a  till,    in  very  deed 
Selling   its  life   to   buy   the   means   to  live? 


66 


THE   CRY 

WITH  men   I  mingled  on  the  thoroughfare 
In   the   hard  strife,    beheld   the  painted   lie 
Of   Custom,    yea,    and  saw   Sin   branded   bare 
Upon  the   shameless   brow  of  Harlotry. 

And  I   have  seen   the   dull  and   patient  eye, — 
Seeking   it  knew  not  what,    it  knew  not  where, — 
Till  in   my   brain   the   mockery   and   despair 
Blent  in   an   awful,    inarticulate   cry : 

"Bread!     give  us  bread,   that  we  may   faint   no  more. 
Life!    give   us  life,    the  life  we  do  not  know, 
Wide  as   the   winds   are,    as   the   heavens   free, 
Else,    spite  of   gold,    your  land  shall   sink  in   woe, 
And    red-mouthed    Rapine   range   until   the  sea 
Shall  lapse   a   requiem  on   a   desolate  shore." 


WITH   HEARTS   NOT   RESONANT 

WITH    sins  of  baser  sort  whereof  there  breed, 
Dimming  the  light  a  God  must  reillume, 
Rank   vapors  sucked   by    such   as  walk  the  gloom; 

With   tears  and   foul  contagions  that  they   feed: 
Men  turned  to  beasts  by   riot,   lust,   and   greed, 
Women   dethroned,    and   the  vast  hecatomb 
Of  infants  thwarted   from   the   mother's  womb, 
This  earth   of  ours   is   made   a   hell   indeed. 

And   we,    men  in   full  light  inert  and   dull, 
Doing  nor  wrong   nor  right,    and  therefore  wrong, 
Meting   in   formal   wise   soul-measure   scant, 

We,   when  the  vials  of  God's  wrath   are  full, 
Shall  hear:    "Not  these;    'twas  ye  that  marred  my  Song, 
Your  fair  green  world,    with   hearts    not  resonant. 


68 


TO   H.  B.  G. 

AUGUST    15,     1899 

TO-DAY,    friend,    let  us   turn   the  page,    and   glance 
Back  o'er  those   glad   few  days   by   Ayr  and   Doon 
When  we,    too   little  thankful  for  the   boon, 
Thridded   the  windings   mellowed   by   romance. 

Bach   flower  we   plucked   had   in   its   countenance, 
Each   consecrated   streamlet  in   its  tune, 
Something   of    that  sweet   Singer  gone  too  soon, 
And   that   high    heart  at  war  with   circumstance. 

We  too   have   struggled   and   we   have  not   bent, 
Not   paid  lip-worship   that  our   hearts   belie, 
But  life   is  long   and   sterner   grows  the  way. 

God   grant  the   soul-wealth   may   not  all   be    spent 
Nor  wholly   dimmed   the   dreamlight   in   the   eye 
When   next  we  meet,    though   furrowed   deep   and  gray. 


AS   DREAMS   FOREVER 

TO    ANNA 

SISTER,    I   know   I   cannot   feel   the   pain 
Of  one   beside  an   open  grave,    who   hears 
The  first  earth   close  o'er  hopes  of  wedded   years,  — 
Nor  the  long   after  yearning,    deep,    but   vain. 

I   have  been   richly   blest;    sorrows   have  lain 
Lightly   upon  us;    all  our  life's  dim   fears 
Seem   blossoming  to  blessings,    and  our  tears 
Are   rainbow    tintings   after  others'    rain. 

But  once  in  dreams   I   saw   my   children   lie, — 
One   sunny   haired   with   visions   all   too  wide, 
One  with  the  luscious   South   in   heart   and  eye. 

I   kissed  them,   but  they   both  were  still  —  like  yours. 
"  'Tis  well,"    I   said,    "for  now  they    will  abide 
As  dreams   forever,    and   a   dream   endures." 


70 


TO  J.  H.  S.,    M.  D. 

FRIEND,    you   have  chosen  out  the   better  way. 
Priests  in  the   fane  of   Poesy,    our   hymns 
We  chant  at  midnight  till  the   soul-lamp    dims 
And  altar-piece  and  paintings   fade  to  gray. 

You   do   your  deeds  of   healing  day   by   day; 
We  have  seen   Visions,    know  the  seeing's  pain; 
Dazed   by   the  splendor  now  we  grope   in   vain, 
And   in   the  seeming  darkness  lose  our  way. 

We  seek  for  beauty  in  the  set  of  suns; 
But  while   we  seek   it  fades.      The   radiance  limns 
The  sky,    speeding   your  way;    with   you   it  brims 
Into  the   Door  of   Life   and   Door   of   Death, 
And   beaming  from  the  eyes  of  little  ones 
Lights   up   your  life  like   his  of   Nazareth. 


THE  NEED 

POOR   parts  of  men,    poor  halves  perhaps,   or  thirds, 
Who  round  our  little   world   and   think   it  all 
The   universe,    philosophers   we   call 
Ourselves,    all  else   barbarians ;     in   herds 
Named   creeds  and   schools   collect  wherein   each   girds 
A   garment  not   his  own,    marking   him   thrall 
To  Plato,    Kant  or  Keats,    Cephas  or  Paul,  — 
Then   flaunts   forsooth    his   weaknesses   in   words. 
Strongly   the  hero  arms  and   spite  of  creeds 
Finds  truth   where'er  it  be,  —  in  prose  or  rhyme, 
In   lyrics  or   in   love,    dramas,    or  deeds 
Springing   full-armed   from   parent   thoughts.     The   time 
Is  ripe   for   men,    whole  men;    the  old  earth  needs 
A   Master  who  will   dare   to   be  sublime. 


72 


TO   H.  M.  B. 

TF  life's  a   field,    O   friend,    set   deep   the   plow! 
JL   Too  much  at  best  lies  fallow,    too  much   bare, 
Barren  and   red;    too  much   with  little  care 
The  hireling   rudely   skims   heedless  of   how 
The  winter  find   the   Farmer's  empty   mow. 

If  life's  a  field,    O   friend,    drive   deep   the   share! 
But  nay,   the  impervious  subsoil  still  is  there; 
I   can   not  turn   it  to  the   light,    canst  thou  ? 
I   would   that  life  were   fluent  like  the   sea, 
With   rhythmic  tides   whose   sweep   forever   brings 
The   far-off  breathings  of  eternity, 
And   that  an   Angel,    with   his   garment's   hem 
Touching   sometimes,    down   to  the   depths  of   them 
Would   move  the   waters  winnowed   by   his  wings. 


73 


POETS   WE   CALL  OURSELVES 

T"*\OETS,    we  call  ourselves,    and  turn  our  rimes 
JL       Full  daintily,    with   patience   infinite 
Seek  out  the   word   and   phrase   most  exquisite 
To  wail  more  tunefully  our  tuneless  times. 

For  us  the  bells  of  life  must  ring  in  chimes, 
Ascending  and   descending,    and   invite 
To  banquets  languishing  with   incense,   light, 
And   the   pale  potion    Art,    which   overclimbs 

The   sense   and   dizzies  the   soul.      Better  long 
Deep  wholesome  draughts  of  living:     wine  of  love, 
Rare,    red;    strife,    keen,    exultant;     hope   and   fear. 

Thus  only   true  world-music   we   shall   hear,  — 
Its   minor  chords  with   major  interwove 
In   diapasoned   chorus   rich   and   strong. 


74 


A   POET?     YOU   A   POET? 

A  POET  ?  —  You  a  poet,    and   must   have 
Your  viands  sauced   and   fricasseed   by   a  cook?  — 
Must  spell  your  inspiration   from   a   book 
As  if  mere  words   were   runes  to  damn   or  save? 

Those   heavy-headed   weeds   that    idly  wave 
About   your   knees,    if   you   had   skill  to  look, 
Would   build   a  nobler  song,    that  worm-fence   nook 
More   fitly   stand   the  lofty   architrave. 

To  give,    not  get  —  this   is  the   high   command, 
O   brother  singer,    that  the   gods   impose. 
They   give  enough   and   more.      Up,    swing   your   blows 

Of  sword  or  sledge,    or  pour  out  balm,    but  stand 
Firm  by  your  gift:     better  the  rudest  prose 
Thau   borrowed   beauty  doled   out  second-hand. 


75 


"PER  LI  CUI  PREGHI" 

I    DREAMED    I   talked  with   Dante  face  to  face; 
And   ever  as   his   large   words   reached   my   mind, 
O'erflowing   its  mean   measure,    I   would   find 
The   remnant   shrunken   to  the   commonplace. 

But   after,    having   walked   alone   a   space 
Of  the  ascending  way,    I  looked   behind 
From   the   high   hilltop   whence  the  pathway   twined, 
Thinking   my   toilsome  journey   to  retrace. 

When  lo,    the  words'  large  meanings  lost  to  me 
Had    flourished   by   the  wayside   unawares; 
And   some  were   grown   to  grain,    which   angels   bound. 

The   nearest  angel   spoke  —  one  laurel-crowned : 
"I   aided   this  man  with   my   company"  — 
"Besought,"    I   dreamed    he  added,    "by   her  prayers." 


SONNETS 


PICTURES   AND    DREAMS 


The  deed  with  life  is  dripping  wet, 
The  thought  is  shadow  to  the  deed; 
The  sphinx's  riddle  who  would  read 

Must  lose  to  find,   to  get  forget. 


THE   SONNET 

A  WOVEN  web  of  song;    a  flashing  gem 
Brought  from  the  perilous  deeps  of  Soul  and  set 
By   kingly   Thought  upon   his   coronet ! 
It  is  a  plucked-off  moment,    flower  and   stem, 
Woven   into  the  poet's  anadem ; 
It   is  a  deed,    a  mood,    bid   stay,    and   yet 
Beaming  with   smiles,    with   passionate   tears   still  wet, 
Or  trembling  in  the  memory  of  them. 
Thus  might  a   God  transfix  and  turn  to  stone 
The   calling   priest  and   fleeing   populace, 
Francesca   swooning   in   the   rapt  embrace, 
The   steed  with   nostrils  wide,    and   him   thereon 
With  lifted  arm  and  passion  on  the  face 
And   all  the  noise  of  battle  stilled   and  gone. 


Si 


A   SONNET   WOULDST   THOU   BUILD 

T    SONNET  wouldst  thou  build?      Go  learn  the  rules 
jLJL    Whereby   to  lay  the  walls,   learn  how  and  where 
To  place   the  pinnacles  that  gleam  in  air, 
The   frets   and  gargoyles  chisel  with   what  tools. 
But   for  the  minster  gloom   mellowed  with   gules 
And  vert  on   floor  and  incensed   altar  stair, 
With    prophets  glowing-garmented,   no  care, 
No  skill  avails,    no  learning  of  the  schools. 
There  shalt  thou  enter  if  thou   hast  the  keys  — 
Unsandaled,    for  the  place  is  holy   ground; 
Chastened   in  thought  and  vision  gaze  around; 
And  lo,    the  worshipers  upon  their  knees, 
The  silver  lights,    the  organ's  ebbing  sound, 
The  white-robed   priest  with  low-voiced  litanies. 


82 


THEOCRITUS 

T  TIGH  noon  beneath  the  blue  Sicilian  skies. 

JL  Ji    Borne  faintly   down   from  out  the  moveless  trees 

Are  piny  odors  and  the  hum  of  bees. 

The  shrill  cicala's  song  quivers  and  dies 

Into  the  quivering  air;    far  mountains  rise; 

Beside  them  rolls  the  blue  of  tremulous  seas .... 

Here  by  the  ferns  in  unmolested  ease 

Amid   his  flock  the  piping  shepherd  lies. 

Sweet  is  the  silver  fountain's  rise  and  fall, 

And  sweet  the  blended  piping  and  the  play ; 

But  sweeter  in  our  clangorous  modern  day, 

Rare   Singer,    is  thy  gentle  spirit-call, 

The  soul  of  Song  that  echoes  far  away, 

Thy   mind  attuned  to  murmurs  musical. 


CUPID   AND   PSYCHE 

FT1HE  moonlight   fell  upon  the  slumberer ; 
JL      A  hushed  air  breathed  that  all  things  holy   made 
Under  the  lintel  of  the  door  he  stayed, 
Young   Love,    tall,    quivered,    fair,    fearing  to  stir. 
Long  there  he  stood  like  a  bright  pillager .... 
One   hand   of   hers   beneath   her  cheek   was  laid 
Half   hidden   in   soft   hair.      About   her  played 
Pure   dreams   that   sweet,    faint   music   brought  to   her. 
He   came;     the   fair  dreams   fluttered,    then   they   grew 
To  fuller  music,    and   a  crimson  swept 
The   slumberer's  cheek.      Rueful   he   was,    and   wept, 

But  sprinkled  on   her  lip  the  bitter  dew 

He   kissed   the   maiden   and   was   gone.      She   slept, 
Nor  knew   'twas   Love  and   that   her  dreams   were    true. 


BARTOLOMK   RUIZ 

CAROLO  QUINTO 

IMPERANTE  After  the  French  of  Heredia 

\  |  iHIS   man   is   counted  of  the   mighty   dead. 
X     Round  the  rich   strands  of  new  Hesperides 
Where,    perfume-winged,    forever  wafts  the  breeze, 
His   hand   has  guided   and   his  keel   has  led. 
Not   years  alone,    the  mighty   calms,    the  dread 
And  love  of  that  old  siren  of  the  seas, 
The  swell,   the  surf,  the  sharp  hoar  spray, — 'twas  these 
Made  hoar  his  beard  of  brown,    made  hoar  his  head. 
Through   him  old   Castile  triumphed,    and   he  bore 
Right  proudly   that  great  lion   flag  of   yore 
Round  the  wide  circle  of  the  ocean's  rim. 
Prince  of  all  pilots  in  the   days  of  old, 
He  bears  on  royal  arms  enriched  by  him, 
An   anchor  sable   with   a  chain  of  gold. 


85 


AUCASSIN  AND   NICOLETE 

TO-DAY   I  looked   within  a  legend   rare, 
A   moonlight-hidden  niche  of  long  ago, 
Wherein   faint  breezes,    rose-oppressed,   still  blow 

At  midnight Hush;    note  the  deep  shadows  where 

The  maiden  lily-white  with  eyes  of  vair, 

Steals  to  the   buttressed   tower.      Now  do  we  know 

Whence  is  this  tuning  of  a  lover's  woe, 

This  weeping  o'er  a  lock  of  yellow   hair. 

It  would   have  set  the  soul  of  Keats  aglow,— 

The  daisies,    bent,    in   moonlight,    wet  with   dew, 

Dark   to  the  marble  whiteness  of  her  feet; 

He  would   have  tuned   his  silver  lute-strings   low 

To  sing  this  ancient  love,    it  was  so  true, 

It  was  so  pure,    it  was  so  passing  sweet. 


MORS    VELATA 

rTIHE  Form  passed   by  her,   veiled,  mysterious, 
JL     Mellowing  the  twilight  with  a  radiance 
That  half  revealed  the  hidden  countenance 
And  limbs  in  folded  white.      He  moving  thus, 
The  night  grew  fragrant,    and,   not  clamorous 

There  tolled  sweet  bells Her  lips  as  from  a  trance 

Pale,   virgin  as  a  nun's,    for  utterance 
Are  crimsoned  with  a  passion  riotous. 
"Love,    Love,    'tis  he;    with  all  he  lingereth,  — 
I  know  his  presence,    for  my   heart  is  stirred; 
Love,    Love,    'tis  he;  with   me  he  must  abide!" 
Then  in  the  gloom  she  drew  the  veil  aside, 
Atremble,    and  she  saw  the  face,   and   heard 
The  hollow  voice,    "I  am  not  Love,    but  Death." 


THE   SINGER 

TO   LLOYD  MIFFLIN 

OUT  from   the  golden   spaces  where  among 
The  splendors  lotus-pinioned  long   he  lay, 
Down  to  the  monotone  of  modern  day 
The   gods  have  sent  a   Singer  ever  young. 
The  glowing   gates  of  Song  concordant  swung 
To  music   as  he   passed ;     their  winged   way 
The   harmonies   that   hold   eternal   sway 
Sped   through   the  void,    whose  deeps  reverberant  rung. 
He  comes:    with   eglantine   his  locks  are  bound, 
And   poppies  red ;     his  pipe  of  dulcet  tone 
He   plays  serene   and   makes   melodious   moan ; 
While   see !     the  uncouth   swain    has   heard   the   sound 
And  listened,    reed  to  lip:     his  fields  are   flown 
And   Heliconian   fountains  sparkle   round. 


ARTHUR  AND   GUINEVERE 

WITH   helmets   up,    in   glittering   cavalcade 
The  victors  neared   the   town.      Erect  and   tall 
The   fair-haired   king  loomed   peerless  over  all: 
On   shield   and   dragon  crest  the   sunlight  played .... 
Her  long  hair  bound  with   circlet  gem-inlaid, 
In    maiden   light  undimmed   and  mystical, 
Half  hidden   in   the  shadow  of  the  wall, 
Her  women  with   her,    stood   the   royal  maid. 
As  in   a   dream   she  sees   him   pass   along, 
Round   him   the   clangor  and   the   bray   of  horn. 
He  sees   the   musing  love-light  in   her  eye,  — 
Is  gone  amid  the  clamor  of  the  throng; 
But  on  his  ear  the  noise  and  shoutings  die, 
And   all   the   woe  of   Arthur's  world   is   born. 


ROSALIND 

0  SWEET  say  on,    "Coz,    coz,    that  them  didst  know 
How  many   fathom  deep   I   am   in  love!" 
Say  on,    "Come  woo  me,    woo  me,    I  would   prove 
Whether  thou   be  a  lover  staid  and  true." 
Thus  limpid   as  the   brook   that  brawls   below, 
Laughter  and   speech   made  musical  the  grove, 
While  one  apart,   where  copses  interwove, 
As  on  a  stage   beheld  the  lovers  go. 
O   sweet,    say  on!      Let  thy  white  pinnace  glide 
Softly   upon  the  silver  waves  of  singing; 
Let  all  the  lesser   barges  draw  aside, 
Dipping  upon  the  swell  that  follows  wide, 
While   fainter   still   the   marriage   bells   are   ringing 
And   nearer  break  the  surges  and   the  tide. 


AMOR    TRISTIS 

ONCE  in  a  solemn  vision  of  the  night 
Love  came  unbid,    not    young  and   marvelous  fair, 
Quivered  as  he  is  feigned,    with  fragrant  hair, 
But  pale   and  tall,    in   folded   garb   of  white. 
I  could  not  see  the  shadowed   features  right, 
Save  the  worn  brow:     a  wreath  as  poets  wear, 
But  with   the  long  leaves  withered,    rested   there, 
And   from   the   deep   eyes  glowed   a   far-off  light. 
"Who  art  thou  ?      In  that  pale,    sad   brow  of  thine 
And  in  the  far  light  of  those  deep,    sad   eyes 
Burning  into  my  soul,    what  secret  lies?" 
No  word  he  spoke,    but  drew  the  folds  apart 
Slowly;      I  saw  the  ever-flaming  heart, 
And   from   that  night  his   heart  of   flame  was   mine. 


THE   INEPT 

FT1HE   whirl  and   rattle  of  the   noisy   street, 
JL     Empty   and   harsh   goes  by   me;    men  with  eyes 
Hard   as   these   walls  or  leaden   as   the   skies 
Stare  as  they   pass  me  by  with   clanking   beat. 
Have  they  not  known  of  happiness,    the  sweet 
And   holy  joys  of  home,    the  love  that  lies 
Unhidden   in   its  light,    the  merry  cries 
Of  welcome,   and  the  sound  of  little  feet? 
Yet   I  am  peer  to  these.      I   too  am  strong,  — 
Have  mind  whose  nervy   thews  could   lightly    fling 
These  puppet  men.      But  heedlessly   I  long 
Believed   in   Beauty,  —  saw   her   flashing  wing ; 
And  so   I   wrought  to  tune  my   soul  to  song, 
Nor   made  of  it  a   hard    and   clanging   thing. 


ONE   SIN  THERE   IS 

ONE  sin  there  is  whereof  he  has   not  told 
Who  walked  the  dolorous  way There  are  who  spent 

Service  in  vain,   who  wrought  with  mind   intent 
Humbly   at   His  great  Work  till  they   grew  old, 
Nor  dared  the  world's  rich   pageantry   behold 
Till  on  a  respite  all  too  brief  they   bent 
Their  eyes  aslant  and  saw,    and   thenceforth   went 
To  tasks  perforce,  —  of  these  he  has  not  told. 
They  died.      Their  memory  on  earth  is  fair; 
The  deeds  they  watered  long  are  green  and  grow; 
But  they,    far  from   the  pleasant  sun  and   sky, 
Near  where  the  groans  begin  and  the  dun  air, 
Thick  with  dim  souls,    quivers  with  one  vast  sigh, 
Borne   on   with   heads  askant,    forever  go. 


93 


THE   FRUIT  GIRL 

UPON  the  city  street  amid  the  roar 
Of  traffic   at   its   flood    I   saw   her   stand, 
A  bunch  of  bright  catawbas  in   her  hand, 
Her  red  lips  riper  than  the  fruit  she  bore. 
I  spoke  to  her,    but  noting,    spoke  no  more; 
I  knew  that  cluster  like  a  magic  wand 
Had  waved   her,   wide-eyed,    to  a   foreign  land 
Plucking  the  vintages  in  days  of  yore. 
I  learn  the  lesson  in  her  eyes  of  brown, 
And  leave  her  to  her  blue  Campania 
With   hills  afar  and  silver  bowl  of   bay, 
And  journeying   youthward  over  tower  and  town, 
In  distant  fields   I  pass   a  golden  day 
Dreaming  my  life-dreams  till  the  sun  goes  down, 


EVENING 

TO    H.   B.   G. 


,  moveless,  massed,  the  live-oaks  stand  in  view 
]  J    Against  the  western   mountains  lilac-gray 
The  crimson  o'er  whose   summits  fades   away 
Into  the  wide  expanse  of  silver-blue. 
The   young  moon,    virgin-pale,    just  peering  through, 
Tips   the   dark  oak-trees,    and  with   feeble   ray 
Auriga's  twin  stars  shine,  —  foremost  are  they 
Of  all  that  one  by  one  their  watch   renew. 
Near  us  are  cropping  cattle  in  the  gloom, 
Nearer  the  lonely  night-bird's  uncouth  cry; 
Across  far  meadows  comes  the  watch-dog's  bark 
Reduplicated   in   the  gathering   dark; 
And  gleaming  from  the  oak-gloom  we  descry 
A  twinkling  light,    and  think  of  you  and   home. 


95 


TRISTAN   AND   ISOLT 

I.   THE   POTION 

HIS   bright  locks  wet  with   foam,    he  went  below, 
Wearied   with   two-fold   toil.      Isolt  was   there, 
She   with   the   aureole  of  sunny    hair: 
"Drink  bravely  now,"  she  smiled,   "as  thou  didst  row." 
Laughing  they  drank  there  in  the  twilight  glow, 
Nor  heard  the  voice,    "Not  wine,  not  wine,  beware! 

Then  gloom the  rapture,    passion,    mute  despair 

A  shadowed   Hand   has  linked  their  lives  for  woe. 
Day  after  day  their  vessel  plowed  the  foam 
And  climbed  the  hill  of  sea;    day   after  day 
The  sunlight  sparkled,    but  they   knew   it  not. 
Fame,    friendship,    honor,  —  all  save  love  —  forgot, 
The   rowers'   toil  is  faint  and   far  away, 
And  as  in  dreams  they   see  the  hills  of  home. 


II.   THE 

the  blue  waves,    my  ship  with  keener  prow 
Fill  out,    ye  sails ;     I  leave   you  far  behind  ! 
Look,    my  beloved,   look;  we  near  thee  now; 
The  sails  are  white,   thy   Isolt  not  unkind. 
Soon  thou  shalt  feel  her  tresses  touch  thy   brow, 
Her  kisses  and   hot  tears,    her  arms  entwined,  — 
In  her  eyes  drink  again  the  potion,   bind 
Thy   soul  and  her's  anew  with   deathless  vow." 
She  reached  the  port,    and  passed,    but  did  not  see, 
The  tall  fair  form  with   blue  eyes  steeled  in   hate, 
That  looked,    "The  sails  were  black  to  thine  and  thee." 
Within  the  hall  she   heard   the   moan,    "Too  late!" 
Saw  lifted   from   her  life  the  hand  of  Fate, 
Clasped  the  dead  form  and  kissed  him  —  and  was  free. 


97 


SEATTLE 

I  SAW   her,    lusty,    sordid,   wrapped  in  gray, 
Upon   her  mighty   ramparts,    and   behold, 
The   blatant  voice,    "There  is  no  God   but  Gold, 
And   I   his  prophet,"   went  up   night  and   day. 
Again   I   saw   her,    and   before   her  lay 
Her  winding  ways  of  sea  in  silver  rolled ; 
And   huge  Tacoma  loomed  up   white  and  old, 
Mute   with   the  mystery  that  has  no  way. 
Then  in  my   thought   I  saw  the  city  grow 
To   marble,    and   a  thousand   masts  as  one 

Pointing  aloft Thus  on  a  hilltop  long 

A   prophet  stood  of  old,    then   broke  to  song; 
And   all   the   tents  of  Jacob   lay   below 
Full  in   the  glitter  of  the   rising  sun. 


98 


THE   DRAMAS   OF   SHAKESPEARE 

THOSE  morning  stars  that  stud  the  firmament, 
Golden  and  amber  in  the  heavens  hung, 
That  now  for  these  three  centuries   have  sung 
Young-orbed,    in  light  that  never   shall  be   spent, — 
Were  they   by   an  arm  cloud-veiled,   omnipotent, 
While  loud  with  music  the  wide  concave    rung, 
Forth  from  the  seething  bounds  of  Chaos  flung 
For  signs  and  seasons  and  man's  wonderment? 
Or  rather  were   they  —  O   how   dim   we   see, 
Straining   our   eyes  to  pore   upon  the   scroll  — 
Dream-woven   from   the  tissue  of  a   soul 
Too  great  for  us  in  its  humanity, 
Each   splendid   star  still  vibrant   with   the  whole 
Rich,    wondrous  life,    majestical  and  free? 


99 


BY   THE   FIRESIDE 


THE   WIND   SONG 

A  WIND   came  stealing  out  of  the  west, 
Blow  wind  blow; 
It  rocked  the  mother  bird   in   her  nest, 

Blow   wind   blow. 

The  mother-bird   sat  with  open  eye; 
(The  cedar  waved   his  arms  on   high) 
She  felt  the  warm  eggs  under  her  breast, 
She  saw  the  poplar  bend  his  head, 
And,    far   below,    the  roses  red 
Nod  to  the  wind  as  he  passed  them  by 
And   round  them  strewed  their  petals  sped 
Pity  to  take   them,    but   he  knows   best; 

Blow  wind   blow. 

She  saw  the  fleecy  clouds  above,  — 

Blow   wind   blow,  — 
The  sky   so  blue,    the  fields  below, 
The  sunshine  with  its  golden  glow ; 
She  heard  the  cooing  turtle-dove; 
She  saw   the  white  ships   far  away 


103 


The    Wind         Dancing  upon  the  silver  bay. 

Song.  She  saw  and  was  glad  the  livelong  day; 

But  whence  was  the  wind  and  whither  it   blew 
She   never  asked  and   she  never  knew  — 
Blow  wind   blow. 


TO   A   CHILD 

A  LITTLE  note,   its  music  lasts  not  long, 
But,    sweet  and  true, 

The  reapers  at  the  noontide  hear  the  song, 
Look  up  and  see  the  blue. 


104 


FELICITAS 

f  f   T     LITTLE  wife  that  loves  him  through  and  through ; 
Ji~\.  Just  coy   enough  to  keep  love  ever  new." 
This  gift  is  mine;    and   if  a  god  should  say, 
"Choose  what  thou  wilt,    for  thou  mayst  have  to-day 

Wealth,    Fame,    and  Ease  with  all  their  retinue," 

This  my   reply:     "All  thou  canst  hold  to  view 
Is  dross  wherewith   I  know  not  what  to  do; 
My  cup  of  joy  is  full  if  there  but  stay 
A  little  wife. 

But  hold !    for  there  is  room   besides  for  two,  — 
A  brown-eyed   boy,    a  lass  with  eyes  of  blue. 
Lo,    both  are  mine,    and  life  is  one  long   May 
With   these  three  gifts.      If  need   be,    take  away 
Health,    home,  and  friends,    but  leave  me  long  in  lieu 

A  little  wife 

And   children  two." 


105 


MOTHER-LOVE 

A  YOUTH   went  from  his  father's  door 
To  seek  his   fortune  far  away ; 
And   after  years  returned  once  more 
To  where   the  peaceful  valley   lay ; 
But  changed   by  travel  toil  and   sin, 
None  knew  him,    none   would   let  him   in. 

"I'll   hasten  homeward;    there,"   said   he, 
"For  me  the  evening  hearth  will  burn; 

There,    surely,    friends  will  welcome  me, 
And  all  rejoice  at  my   return.".  .  . 

An  unknown   face  the   father  scanned, 

The  watchdog   bit  his  outstretched   hand. 

His  brother  sharply   spoke  to  him; 

To  gaze,    his  sisters  left  their  chores; 
His  mother,  weak  of  sight  and   limb, 

Beheld   him   through   the  open  doors. 
She  knew  him,    spite  of  toil  and  years, 
And   ran  and  kissed   him   mid   her   tears. 


106 


A  VOYAGER 

A  VOYAGER,    upon  an  untried  sea 
Embarked  but  yesterday,    his  compass  new, 
His  chart  unread,    asleep  the  airy   crew 
Of  hopes  and  fears  and  passions  yet  to  be. 

Still  to  his  ear  attuned,    the  melody 
Of  far-off  bells  across  the  sunlit  blue 
Sounds  silverly,   while  dim  upon  his  view 
The  mystic  groves  bend  dark  above  the  lea. 

Oh,  he  shall  bravely  sail,  his  guide  the  stars, 
And  chiefly  those  twin  stars,  a  mother's  eyes, 
Hid  from  the  pilot  by  no  clouded  bars. 

Through    storm  and  calm   his   bark  shall  sink  and  rise 

Until  he  enter  port  with  steady   spars 

And  gaze  upon  new  lands  in  vague  surprise. 


107 


WHAT  THE   CHICK   SAID 

I  WISH  I   were  a  gosling, 
A  little  gosling  gray; 
I'd  paddle  out  to  mid-stream 
And   smoothly   float  away. 
The  sunny   banks   would  widen, 
The  wavelets  nod  and  play; 
I'd  leave  my  sister  goslings 
Miles  away. 

I'd  sail  toward  the  ocean, 

The  ocean  deep  and  blue; 
Its  curling  waves  would  courtesy, 

And  I  would  courtesy  too. 
I'd  float  into  the  sunset, 

Beyond  the  ocean  foam, — 
But  since  I  am  no  gosling 

I'll  stay  at   home. 


108 


SONGS   OF  A   SHOK 


A  SONG  of  a  little  brown   shoe 
That  is  torn  at  the  heel  and  the  toe! 
And  what  is  your  mother  to  do 
But  kiss  the  piggies  all  five  a  row, 
Quite  down  to  the  one  that  said   wee,  —  see,    see ! 
Through  the   hole  in  the  little  brown  shoe? 

A  song  of  a  little  torn  shoe! 

Your  papa  another  will  buy, 

For  a  lad  that  can  toddle  like  you 

As   quick   as  a  chick,    as   neat   and   as   spry, 

From   the  sofa  across  to  the  chair,  —  take  care !  — 

Is  too  old  for  a  little  torn  shoe. 

A  song  of  a  little  torn  shoe! 
Come,    see  where   I  store   it  to  stay 
With   trinkets  of  Brown-eyes   and   Blue, 
Until  my   babies   have  wandered   away,  — 
And  then   in   my    heart  of   hearts  for   aye 
Will   I   treasure   this  little   brown   shoe. 


109 


Songs  of  a  ll 

Shoe 

T  T  THAT'S  bid  ?     How  much  do  you  bid  for  the  lot  ? 


vv 


Twenty-five  ? fifteen  ? one  dime  ? 

Here  are  dozens  of  quaint  old   trinkets  and   toys 
To  gladden   the   hearts  of  your  girls  and   boys. 
We  are  standing   here  wasting  our  time.      One  dime, 
One  dime! Will  you   start  it  or  not? 

A  bid!      Who'll  put  five  on?    five  on? 
A   bid!    a  bargain   for  you. 

Fifteen!    fifteen !      Agoing gone ! 

And   I  throw  in   the  little   brown  shoe. 

It  is  torn  at  the  heel  and  the  toe, 

And  its  buttons  are  two  in  a  row; 

But  you've  bought  these  goods  at  a  bargain  you  know, 

And   I    THROW   IN   the  little  brown  shoe. 


no 


STOPS   OF   VARIOUS   QUIU.S 


Not  on  land  and   not  on    sea 
Shall  the  realm  of  poet  be, 
Nor  a  world  of  sight  and  sound 
Be  his  true  abiding  ground. 
Wider  than  the  sea-ways  are, 
Higher  than  the  utmost  star, 
Deeper  than  e'er  plummet  ran, 
In  the  heart  and  mind  of  man 
He  shall  fix  his  bright  domain, 
Rear  his  palaces  and  reign. 


YEARS  AND   CHANGE 

I  MET   a  friend 
Whose  life  did   hold 
My  life  in  his 
In   days  of  old. 

He  clasped  my   hand, 
We   broke   the  spell 
The  silent  years 
Had   wrought  so  well. 

We  broke  the  spell, 
For  face  to   face, 
We  spoke  of  naught 
But  commonplace. 

We  bade   adieu, 
He   clasped   my   hand ; 
I  saw  the  tear, 
I    understand. 


THE   NEOPHYTE 

FT1HE   body   I   despise, 
JL     The  soul   is  all; 
Love-looks  from   thy  langorous  eyes 
Cannot  hold   me   thrall. 

Thy  kisses  are  forgot 
With   all  their  pain; 
And  thy  tears  can   move  me  not 
Though  they   fall  like  rain. 

Thy  wealth  of  human  love, 

Poured  out  like  wine, 
Waste  not,    for  high   above 

I   have   fixed   mine. 


116 


OCTOBER 

From  the  German  of  Erich  Jansen 

FOR  the  parting  feast  her  room  she  has  garnished ; 
With  costliest  hangings  she  decks  the  wall; 
Her  glittering  gifts  to  the  guests  are  furnished 
And   scattered  about  through   the   banquet  hall. 

Like  a  king  of  the  North  when  the  "skoals!"  are  ringing, 
In  the  throng  of  his  bards  and  his  vassals  bold, 
She  rises  and  goes  from  the  feast  and  singing 
Through  the  death-door  splendid  with  purple  and  gold. 


THE   PARTING 

I  IT  T  THEN  the  swallows  homeward   fly,  . 
W     Though   to-day   we  part  in   pain" 
Thus  we  sing  and   know  not  why, 
When  the  swallows  homeward   fly 
Circling  in  the  crimson  sky: 

Lies  in  light  the  summer  plain 
When  the  swallows  homeward   fly. 

"Though  to-day  we  part  in  pain, 

Shall,    O  shall  we  meet  again 
When  the  swallows  homeward   fly?" 

Hush,   my   heart,   why  dost  complain: 

"Shall,   O  shall  we  meet  again?".... 

Darkens  all  the  summer  plain, 
Fades  the  crimson   from  the  sky. 

Shall,    O   shall  we  meet  again 
When   the   swallows  homeward  fly? 


118 


PHYLLIS 

BEFORE  the  lark  has  left  her  home  and  soared 
above  the  blue, 
Before  the  sun  has  kissed  the   hills  and   stolen   the 

drops  of  dew, 
She  trips  adown  the  meadow  while  the  twinkling  of 

her  feet 
Leaves  trembling  all  the  diamonds  upon  the  grasses 

sweet, 
And    calls  the   cows,    "Come   Bess,    come   Boss,    why 

tarry   ye   so  long? 
The   milkers    wait    beside    the    gate    the    buttercups 

among." 

But  when  the  west  in  gold  is  drest  and    sunken  is 

the  sun, 
When    milking   pails    hang   up  in   rows   and   all   the 

milking's  done, 
She    trips    adown     the     mead    again    while    shadows 

deepen   round 
And   flowerets  try   to   touch    her   hem   or   bow   them 

to  the  ground; 

119 


Phyllis      The    streamlet    silent    all    the    day    sings    long    and 

loud  with  glee 

When    Phyllis   comes   to   where    I    wait    beneath    the 
try  sting   tree. 


TO   A   HOUSEWIFE 


BUSY  brain  and   busy   feet! 
Hand  doth   plot  and   heart  doth   beat 
Life  to  nourish   and   complete. 


Singing  heart  and   buoyant  will! 

Weary,    weary !     busy   till 

Children's  sounds  grow  faint  and   still. 

Weary,   weary  !    daylight  dies 

Whence  the   Sabbath   calm   that  lies 
In  the  hazel  of  her  eyes? 


120 


THE   WEDDING   GOWN 

LAST  night  she  wore  her  wedding  gown, 
I  kissed   her  when   I   came. 
The  leaves  of  life  are   falling   down, 
The   light  within   her  eyes  of  brown 

Is   still  the   same, 
Or  gentler,    deeper  than   the  day 
She  laid   the  wedding   gown   away. 

Last  night  she   wore   her   wedding   gown, 
And   she  shall  wear  it  once  again ; 

The  wheels  of  time  will   be  run  down, 

The  light  within   her   eyes  of   brown 
Be   faded   then, 

The  hand   responseless  to  the  will,  — 

The  voice  of  music  shall  be  still. 


121 


MAIDEN   FANCIES 

IN   THE   HAMMOCK 

A  SHIP  is  sailing  over  the  sea  — 
Sails  of  white  on  a  sea  of  blue  — 
A   bird   is  blown  across  the  lea, 
A   word   is  whispered  low  to  me, 
"Love,   be  true,    be  true." 

The  sails  are  gone, —  ah,   woe  is  me!  — 

Only   a  sky  of  summer  blue, 
Only   the  sounds  of  bird  and   bee 
And  the  rustling  leaves  of  an  apple  tree 
With   glints  of  sunlight  through. 


122 


WAITING  Maiden 

Fancies 
chestnuts  patter  amid  the  leaves, 

_!_     Southward   clatter  the   birds  in   flocks; 
In  ivies  twined   beneath  the  eaves 
A   rustling  wind  at  twilight  grieves, 

In  moonlight  glitter  the  huskers'   shocks. 

The  dawn  is  bitter  with  frost  on  plain, 

The  sky  is  deep,    the  woods  are  red, 
The  world  is  sweet  in  its  dying  pain,  — 

My   heart  is  dying,    my  life  is  dead: 
The  days  are  singing,    but  I  am  dumb, 
Love  conies  not  and   he  will  not  come. 


123 


HEART   OF   THE   ROSE 

OLOVE,    O   heart  of  love,    how  like  a  rose 
From   bud  to  flower  the  perfumed  leaves  unclose. 
The  red   its  passion  and  the  light  of  youth, 

The   bud   its   promise   of  the   wealth   to   be, 
The   flower  its   fullness  and   the  thorn   its  ruth, 
And   the   heart  of  the  rose,    Love,   only  thee. 

A   song  will  linger  when  the  singer  is  dead; 
The   fragrance  ceases  when  the   flower  is  shed. 
The  canker  gnaws,    the  suns  of  summer  blight, 

The  leaves  are  scattered  with   the  season's  change, 
But  the  rose   HAS   BEEN   with   its  form  of  light,  — 

Be   glad   and   it  is,    nor  count  it  strange. 


124 


THROUGH   THE    YEARS 

OMOON,    do  you   shine  on   a  wanderer   still, 
Or  a  grave   by   the   desolate  sea? 

The  long  night  I  dream  that  the  silver-tipped  waves 
Are  wafting   him   nearer  to   me. 

Or  sometimes   he  sails   where   the   Indian   isles, 

Asleep  like   a  dream-laden  soul, 
With   their  dark   forests   dip   to  the   mystical  waves 

That  noiselessly    quiver  and   roll. 

And  sometimes  in  battle  that  silently   sweeps 

O'er  hillsides  that  redden  with   gore, 
And  gleam  as  with   flashes  of  dark  thunder  clouds, 

He  leads   in  an   echoless  war. 

False?      No,   rather  say  that  he  sleeps  'neath  the  brine, 

Deep   under  the  troublous  tide,  — 
That  the  coral  waves  o'er  him   instead  of  the  rose, 

And   the  glow  worm   shines   dim   by   his  side. 


125 


MEDEA 

E   gathers  magic  herbs  at  night 
And   steeps  them   by  the  moon's  dim   light 
In  potions  strong   for  bane  and   blight,  — 
Medea. 

Her  dark  eyes  weave  into  my   verse; 
I  dare  not  here  their  tale  rehearse 
Who  spent  their  dying   breath  to  curse 
Medea. 

I   say,    "Enchantress,    weave  thy   spell 
Around   the  souls  thou   lovest  well ; 
Enwrap  them   with   the  chains  of  hell, 
Medea. 

"And   when  love  turns  to  bitterness, 
With   naught  to  cherish,    none  to  bless 
O  then   be  thou   my   patroness, 
Medea. 


126 


But  lo,    these  potent  spells  are  naught,  Medea 

For  when  this  dark,    unholy  thought 
Thine  eyes  within  my   soul  have  wrought, 
Medea, 

I   hear  a  voice  that  falters  not: 
"Forgive;    they   do  they  know  not  what"— 
And   all  thy   magic   is   forgot, 
Medea. 


WORLD-WKARY 

I   AM  weary  of  this  striving, 
This  struggle  man   to   man, 
Where  all   bear  down  the  vanquished, 
And  each  gets  all  he  can. 

I  long   for  the  days  of  boyhood 
When  from  the  early  morn 

I   followed   all  day   the   harrow 
And  tended  the  covered  corn. 

127 


World  The  long   rows  led  to  the  upland; 

Weary  Beyond,   the  view  was  wide: 

I   saw  the  yellow  wheatfields 
Dotting  the  country   side; 

I   saw  the  distant  city, 

Its  steeples  rising  high, 

The    far-off  hazy   mountains 
And,    over  all,    the   sky. 

My   heart  went  out  to  the  city, 
Where  victories  were  won,— 

Beyond  the  purple  mountains 
That  hid  the  setting  sun... 

But  now   I   yearn   for  something 
That   left   me  long   ago,  — 

A   sense  of  breadth   and   freedom 
That  only   a   boy   can   kn 

And    I   would  leave  forever 
The   cursed   marts  of  men, 

And   back   in   the  long-rowed   corn    field 
Dream   all  my   life  again. 
128 


THE   CLOSED   GENTIAN 

H    TT    WAKE,    awake,"    the   west  wind   blew, 
XJL    "The   morning   sun   has  smiled  on   you. 

The   autumn   flowers   heard   the   call 

And   laughed   to  see   the   dead  leaves   fall. 

The   aster's  purple   crown   expands, 
The  daisies   clap   their  little   hands; 

And   all   look   up   to  greet   the   sun, 
And   all   are   fair   and   glad   save   one. 

To   her   the   west-wind   conies   in   vain 
With   whisperings  of  sky   and   plain. 

He  sings,    "Oh,   open  lids  of  blue, — 
Open   and   bathe  in   light   and   dew. 

"Thy   regal   sister's   azure   cup 
Untwines  to  drink   the   sunshine   up; 


129 


The   Closed        "Her  wealth  of  calyx,    fringe,    and  stem 
Gentian  She  wearg  Hke  queen   her  Diadem. 


"Like   her  unfold,    and   feel  the  breeze; 
Oh     wake  and   hear  the   hum  of  bees, 

"And   with   thy   robe  of  blue  unfurled, 
Behold   the  sky   and   beauteous  world." 

She   faintly   hears,    she  longs  and   thrills 
To  see  the  wondrous   sky   and   hills; 

But  fate   is  stern :     the   breeze   is  gone . . . 
She  opened  not  and   still   dreamed   on, 

And   all  day  long  the  butterfly 
Beheld   her  closed   and   flitted   by. 


130 


ALONE 

IT   IS   not   hard   when   men   surround 
The   Singer,   learn  his  songs  by   rote, 
And  if  he  only  sing  a  note 
Piece  out  the  song  and  praise  the  sound, 
It  is   not   hard   for   Singer  then 
To  sing  high   helpful  songs  to  men. 

But  when   the   hard   world   claims  its  own, 
And   he  must  speak  in  commonplace 
Lest    men  should  wonder  to  his  face ; 
Or  work  in  silence  and  alone,  — 
Then  it  is  hard:     he  must  hide  deep 
His  songs   in   border   realms  of  sleep, 
Or  hoard  and  count  them,    overbold, 
As  some  poor  miser  counts  his  gold. 


A   LAST   WORD 

I  KNOW  not  that  the  morning   stars 
Planned   and   plotted  to  make   us  one; 
Nor  that  before  these  lives  of  ours, 
The  webs  were  interspun. 

I    know   I    met  a  girl   of   girls, 

Brown-eyed  and  laughing,    in   days  of   yore 
My   heart   was   tangled    in   her   curls, 

And  caught.      I   know  no  more. 

A   glance  upon   the  crowded   street: 

The   Destinies   for  all   I  know 
Guided   the  gentle  little  feet, — 

I   think   it   happened   so. 

But  when    I   hear  my   children's   mirth, 
And   when  they  climb   upon  my   knee, 

1   ask   not   if   the  lord   of   Earth 
Be  Chance  or  Destiny; 


132 


And   when   a   hand   is  laid   in   mine  A   Last 

Gently,    as   in   the  long   ago, 
I  thank  the  Will  and   Ways  divine 

That   it  is  ordered   so. 


THE   SONG 


E   words  were  simple  as  a  child's, 
JL     The  tune  was  like  the  words; 
In   silver   notes   it   rose  and   fell 
As   liquid   as  a   bird's; 

But   all   of   life   was   far  away 

Upon  a  golden    ground, 
And  all   the  seeming  solid   world 

Was   melted   into  sound. 


133 


FAR,    FAR   AWAY 

FAR,    far  away,    beyond  the  mountains   blue 
Whose  silver  summits   hid   the  sun   from   view, 
A   lad,    he  saw  the  veil  of  golden   mist 
Faded   from   earth,   and,    blent  with   amethyst, 
skyways  with   irradiant  glories   strew. 

He  marveled   much   what  fair  fruit  yonder  grew 
On   what  fair  trees  in  lands  forever  new, 

What  other  suns  what  other  mountains  kissed, 
Far,    far  away. 

The   western  years  are  mellowed  and   are   few, 

The  sunset  mists  still  linger  in  adieu: 

Skyward   he  turns  and  looks  with   yearning  wist 
Where  they,    transmuted   by  the   Achemist, 

Shall  soon   be   mingled   in  a  fairer  hue, 
Far,    far  away. 


134 


A  GIRL 


LIGHTLY  SHE  WALK.U 
OVER  THE  SURFACE  OF 
HER  FOURTEEN  YEARS 


LIGHT  and   mirth   on  lifted  chin, 
Sunlight  weaving   out  and   in 
With   the  ripples  of   her   hair, — 
Fair  she  is,    and  silver-fair; 
Sweet  and  maiden-sweet  is  she, 
Wrapped   about  with   mystery. 

What  to  her  is  like,    I  ween 
I   have   heard   and    I   have   seen, 
When   and   where   I    cannot  say, 
Long  ago  and   far  away. 
Was't  perchance   a  song  of   bird, 
Or  the  ripple  of  a  stream 
Hid   in   shadows,    overheard 
In  old  forests,    half  adream  ? 
Or  the   broken   bits   of   song 
Sweet  with  silences    not  long, 
Murmured   in   an   unknown   tune 
On   a  morning   moist  with  June? 
Or  a  lily?    or  the  light 
In   her   chalice   exquisite? 
135 


A   Girl  Or  the  silver  radiance 

On   a   quiet   lake's   expanse, 
Etched   in  blue,    with  banks  below 
Clear   and   soft  and   tremulous  ? 

But  the  symbol   flees  me  thus: 
Not   in   aught  we  see  or  know 
Framed   in   time  or  circumstance,  — 
Not  in   rise  or  set  of  sun, 
Aught  that's  ended  or  begun, 
Still  in   sound   or  sight  or  word, 
I    have   seen   and    I    have   heard. 
All  things  that  in   nature  are ; 
Rise   of  sun   and   set  of   star, 
Fruit  and   fragrance,    song  of   bird 
In  old    forests  overheard, 
Sun   and  shadow,    sound  of  stream 
Lapsing   in   midsummer  dream, 
Lilies  shedding  light  around, 
Treetops   nodding  with   no  sound,  — 
All   are  pulsings  and   have   part 
In   the   universal   Heart, 
Which   in   mighty   systole 
Urges   up   to  man   and  tree 

136 


And   in   rhythmic   after-lull  A    Girl 

Flushes  into   beautiful. 

Sound   and   sight  and   fragrance,    all 

Blent   in   union   magical, 

These   and   more   than   these   is   she, 

Wrapped   about  with   mystery, 

Fragment  of  the   boundless   Soul 

Shaping  to  the  lower   Whole, 

Dimmed   by   bounds,    but  dewy   wet, 

Broken   surface  gleaming   yet. 

Maiden-sweet,    with   open   eyes, 
On   the   brink   of  mysteries ! 
Seeing  not,    yet  all  things  seeing 
To  the  limpid  depths  of  Being, 
Shaming  those  poor  truths  that  lie 
Open   to  the   studied   eye. 

Ah,    the   water  crystalline 
Dimples,    on  the  verge  of  wine; 
Dim,    anear   the   Master  stands 
Blessing   it  with   holy   hands. 
Hushed  and   holy,    in   her  breast 
Quickenings  of  vague   unrest, 
And    afar   the   waverings 

137 


A   Girt  As  of  wide   flamboyant  wings. 

Does  she  see  in   vision  large 
Motherhood  with   misty   marge 
Tremulous,    with  gleams  of  gold, 
Loosing  all  the  bonds  that  hold 
Self  as  self,    entwining   her 
With   the  years  that,    will  be — were, 
Till  are  linked  the  mundane   Hours 
With   the  purpose  of  the  stars? 
Wakes  she?      Titan-new,    uphurled, 
Huge   there  looms  our  later  world; 
Wakes  she?     sing  her  songs  that  lull, 
Sleeping  is  so  beautiful; 
Soothe   her  heart  to  dreams,   anon 
Crimson   riot  there  shall   run; 
Tune  the  lute  to  melody 
Lest,    the  chords  of  Being   smit 
In  tumultuous  harmony, 
Love,   the   Master,    shatter  it. 

Child  of  light,    some  radiance 
Years  have  dimmed   and  custom   reft ; 
Keep,   O  keep   what  still   is  left,— 
Beauty   in   her  dreamful   trance, 
138 


Robed  in  white,   invisible  A   Girl 

Till  the  Prince  shall  break  the  spell; 

Keep,    O   keep   her  still  a  girl 

Heeding   more  one  sunny   curl 

Than  all  the  muffled   din  of   wars, 

Kingdoms,    thrones,    and   conquerors: 

Past  is   dim   for   bane   or   bliss, 

And  the  present  only   is. 

Leave   her?      Aye,    if   nature  can, 
Who  still  leadeth   star  and   man, 
And  with   fearless    "Follow  me," 
Smiles  on   our  perplexity. 
And  this  crystal  house  of  glass 
Whereby    men   as  pictures   pass, 
Be   it  well  or   be   it  ill, 
Let   be   shattered   when  it  will. 
Past  may  dim   with  Time  and   Use, 
MORE   remains  for  MUCH  we  lose; 
Wider   still   and   wider  grow 
Bounds  of  wonder,    as   must   be, 
Bounded    by   eternity. 
Pressing   on,    we  pause,    and   lo, 
Past  again   is   set  aglow. 

139 


A   Girl  "Beautiful!"     with   maiden   breath,— 

Beauty   ever  is  before, — 
"Beautiful!"     in    marriage   wreath, 
Gazing  through   the  open   door, 
"Beautiful!"     the  spirit  saith 
Peering   through   the  doors  of   Death. 

Light  and  mirth   on  lifted   chin, 
Sunlight  weaving  out  and   in 
With   the  ripples  of  her  hair, 
Fair   she  is,    and   silver-fair; 
Sweet  and   maiden-sweet  is  she 
Wrapped   about  with    mystery. 


140 


THE   POET  OF  THE   DOVES 

TO    JOAQUIN    MILLER 

ALONE   he  watches  from  the  heights 
The  sea-gates   dim   their  golden   bars, 
Or  muses  through   the  summer   nights,  — 
Below,    the  myriad   city   lights, 
Above,    the   stars. 

And   all   the  mountain    bursts  to   sound, 

The   air  to  voices   seraph-strong  ; 
The   hill-side   now  is   holy   ground, 
And   every   bush   and   tree   around 

Flames   into  song. 

The  world   is  new,    with   space   and   room ; 

Dim   shapes  are   seen  of   things  to  be ; 
He  sees   emerge   from   primal  gloom,  — 
Ten  thousand  miles,    with  crash  and   boom,  — 

The  line  of  sea. 

Childlike,    he  knows  not  great  and   grand; 

A   soul  suspires   in   every   clod ; 
And,   set  throughout  this   western  land, 
The  everlasting   mountains   stand 

White   tents  of   God. 
141 


The  Poet  of         Our  lower   lives  with   clank  and   jar, 

Are  softened   into  harmonies; 
And  through   the  world   by   ways   that  are 
Changeless  and  dim,    he  sees  afar 
Men   walk   as   trees. 

But  if  some   Python  wrong  arise 

Waking  him   from   his  dream  of  peace, 
And  charm   the  world   with   serpent  eyes, 
He  thrusts  beneath   the  scale  of  lies 
Like  Hercules. 

Grey  poet,   long  thy   rhymes  have  rung, 
And  long   have  lingered  like  a  bell; 
I  know  not  if  since  Shakespeare  sung, 
The  sweetness  of  our   English   tongue 
Was   known   so  well. 

And  the  great  Singer  who  shall  come 

To  shape  our  lives  to  larger  ends,  — 
To  whom   men's  hearts  will  not  be  dumb, 
But  lean  to  listen  as  the   hum 
Of  spheres  descends, 


142 


And   leaning,    hear  the   music  grow  The  Poet  of 

To   tones  of  organ   harmony, 
Till  plain   and   mountain   here   below, 
And  all  the  things  of  life,    shall  flow 

Full  as  the  sea, 

And,    hearing  whom,    men's  lives  shall  spring 

To  life   to  meet   his  own   again,  — 
He   will  touch   hand   to  many   a  string, 
But  clear  in  every  song  shall  ring 

Thy  wild,    sweet  strain. 

Poet,    this  gray   old   world   has   wrongs, 

But  ah,    the   gray   dove   has   her  nest! 
Sing  for  the  peace  thy   spirit  longs, 
But  more,    sing  on   your  twilight  songs 

With  sense  of  rest. 

Your  western  mountain   peaks  are  white ; 

Dashes  in   foam  the  sea  you  love. 
The   room ;    the  rest !      But  men  will  write 
When   twilight  ends  and  it  is  night, 

"A   mateless  dove." 


143 


BARON   STIEGEL 


Written  for  the  "Feast  of  Koses" 
held  at  Afanheim,  Pennsylvania. 


AN   OLD   man  sitting   by  an  open  door 
Under  an  oak!      The  school-day  work   is  done, 
The   sound   of  children's   voices,    fainter  now, 
Now   faded   quite   upon  the  outward  ear, 
Is   borne   far   inward,    blending   with   a   life 
Long,   strenuous,    and  somewhat  loud   with   action, 
Grown   dim   in   dreams.      Sorrows  and  joys  are  there; 
But   the  tumultuous  triumphs   now  are   faint, 
As  the  long   billows  of  a  resonant  sea 
Surging   in   white  are  voiceless  to  the  ear 
Dulled   to  the  roar  by   silent  leagues  between. 
Only   the  griefs  are  loud;    time  dulls  not  them: 
The  dead  estranged   rise  up  and   look  reproach, 
The   friends  grown   cold  walk  with   averted  eyes, 
And   all  the  world   is  dead.      What  if  through   him 
Some  dozen   hungry   mouths  were   stopped   with  bread? 
What  if  in   years  long   past  skies  were  aglow 
Till   midnight  with    some   paltry    furnaces 
Lit  up   by    him  ?      A   greater  than  a   king 
Claimed   guest-rites  of  him  —  Washington,—  what  then  ? 

144 


That  banquet  soothes  not   hunger  of  the   heart.  Baron 

Gold   had   been   scattered   from   his   hands  like   grain:         ie&e 

Where  is  the   harvest  ?     for   he   reaps  it  not ; 

All,    all   is   dead;    the  music  all  is  marred 

By   the  loud   closing  of  the  prison   doors 

And   the  rude   clanking  of   his  debtor's-chains, 

Or  stilled  in  the  long  silence.      One  small  gift 

Of  a   scant  plot  of  ground   where   men   may   pray 

And  the   dead  lie  without  rent  save   for  the   fee, 

Annual,   of  one  red  rose  plucked  from  a  grave, 

Fed   upon  ashes  that  were  reddened   lips,  — 

Only   this   deed   this  product  of   a  whim 

Gleams   in   the   fabric  of   his   finished  life 

Like   slender  thread  of  gold,    but   gleams   not  long, 

Fading   with   all  the   colors  of   his  life 

Dimmed  by  the  shadows  of  blank  prison  walls. 

One  rose  plucked  from  the  grave !     Strange  toll  of  Death 
To  Life!      The  grave  holds  all  he  loves  of  life; 
Above  them   grow   the   roses   that   men   plucked 

To  pay   his   rents And   so  he   muses  long, 

When   lo,    out  of  the   darkness   round,    a   face 
Mildly   looks   down   and   mellows   all  with   light. 

145 


Baron        She   who   had    walked   with    him   the   way   of   life, 
Drinking  with   him   from   wayside  wells  of  joy, 
Helping   to  bear  the  burdens  in  the   heat 
Of  noon,   and   in  the  dark  that  covered   them 
Struggling  till  she  grew  faint  and   could   no  more,  — 
She  comforts  him.      Freed   from  the  weight  of  years 
He  looks  again   into  her  eyes  of  love 
And   sees  again   the  future  now  long  past, 
Fair  as  a  morning  tremulous   with   dew 
And  misty  toward   the  mountains.      Now   he  walks 
Again   with   her  the   way  —  it   is   not   long; 
The  world  again   is  plastic  to  his  will, 
Recolored   to  his  vision   by   his  will, 
Wearing  the  livery  of  his  interests. 
Then,    led   by   her  a  spirit,    spiritualized 
By   her,    as  from   a  hilltop  of  the  mind 
He  sees  his  life  in   colors  as  it  is; 
He  sees  his  deeds,   some  like  the  winter  torrents 
Which    men   had   marked   by   their   incessant   roar 
Now   sunk   in    barren   sands.      And   that  one   whim, 
The  sale  for  one  red   rose,    a  little  stream 
Gleaming  in  tenuous  silver,    wider  grows 
And   wider  till  the   meadows  of  the  world 

146 


It  nourishes,   and,    making   tributary  Baron 

All  his  long  life,    flows  onward  to  the  sea.  Stiegel 

But  now  the  night  has  blotted  out  the  plain, 
And   his  white    hair  is  lifted   by    the   breeze. 
His  dream  is  done. 

Now  all  his  dreams  are  done ; 
Only   the  lesson  of  his  life   remains, 
Wafted   to  us   with   fragrance  of  the   rose,  — 
To  us,   an  age  that  loves  gold  overmuch, 
Prone  to  bow  down    before  the  empty   Form, 
Forgetting  that  save   Love  have  entered  in, 
Informed   it,    and   breathed-in   the  breath  of  life, 
Our  work   is  clay   and   crumbles   to   the   touch 
Of  the  rude  years.      Rich   are  we;    yea,  and   wise! 
We  would   reach   heaven   by   material  means, 
Building  a   Babel  out  of  brick  and  stone: 
There  shall  be  left  no  stone  upon  another 
Unless  we  build  in  love  and  on   His   Law, 
Leaving  wide  windows  for  the  living  soul. 

Courage !      There  shall   be  light.      Chisel  and    hew, 
And   match   the   massive   blocks   in   buttresses 
Pillar  and  groin:     there   is  an   Architect; 

147 


Baron        The  immortal  spirit  cannot   be  immured. 
Stiegel       There  wm  be  ijght;    even  this  !ittle  rift> 

This  day  we  celebrate,    lets   sunlight  in ; 
All  will  be   builded   by   the  deathless  mind 
Into  a  glorious  temple   for  the  soul, 
A   goodly    habitation    for  the   King. 

Roses,    red   roses  then:    they  will  endure 
Longer  than   brazen   tablets;     they   will   teach 
When   marble   monuments   are   blown   in   dust: 
Lif*  out  of  death   and   beauty   from   decay, 
Love   from   the   unlovely,    and    fragrance   in   the   world. 


148 


FATE  AND   OVER-FATE 

"The  law  of  Chance  is  the  law  of  Souls.'1'1 

PTIHIS   moment,    Love,    you  stood   beside   my    chair, 
JL     Deep   shadowed   in   a  wreath   of  raven   hair, 

And  looking   from   the  dark   of  soulful  eyes 
Upon   me  as  in   pleading  and   despair. 

It  seemed  you  spoke:     "The  bond  that  Love  doth  knit 
Is   stronger  than   the  strength   of   human   wit. 
To  break   it  can   avail   not  Time   nor   Wont: 
It  must  endure  with   Him   that  orders  it. 

"When   soul  to  soul  unbosoms  in   a  glance, 
And   trembles   in   the   rapture   of  its   trance, 
The  unborn  generations   plead   for  light, 
And  lo,    their  pleadings   mock   at  circumstance." 

The  vision  slowly  faded,    but   I  saw 

Down  to  the  sources  whence  our  lives  we  draw. 

These  walls  of  stone  were  vanished,    and   the   stars 
Shone  to  the   utmost  deeps  —  and   all  was  law. 


149 


Fate  and        There  as  the  thousand   sided  dice   were  thrown 
Over- Fate       whereby  the  little  lives  of  men  are  known, 

Thine  fell  with   mine:     I   looked   to  see  the  tale,  - 
I  looked  and   saw  they  differed   but   by  one. 

The  vision  changes:     things  to  be    unfold; 
Suns,    constellations,    back   to    mist   are   rolled ; 

I   hear  the  rush   of  Time,    and,    swept  along, 
Alternate   flash    new   systems   and   grow  old. 

Then,    after  permutations   infinite, 

Now   Form   and    Law,    now   Chaos,    Void,    and    Night, 

Again  above  me  shine   Aldebaran 
And   all   the  old    familiar  worlds  of  light. 

All}  things  arenas   they   were.      Our   fates   are   cast ; 
They   waver  as   before,    but  lie   at  last: 

And  look,    O  look!    for  now  they   lie  as  one, 
Swayed   by   the  love  of  countless  ages  past. 


150 


WHENCE?   WHITHER? 

WHENCE   am  I  ?      Whither  ? 
Out  of  the  darkness   into   the   light, 
Dazed   by   the  sunbeams  —  the   glare   is  too   bright, 
Soon  to  be  borne  again  into  the  night,  — 
Whence   am    I  ?  —  Whither  ? 

Floated   down   hither, 

Still  do   I  grope   mid   the  maze  of  the   known 
Fearing   to  find   it  a   vision   alone, 
Hearing  in   silence   the   dark   waters   moan, 

Floating   me   hither. 

Whither?     ah,    whither? 
Down   to  the   blue  of  an   infinite   sea, 
Tideless  and   shoreless:     it  waiteth   for  me. 
Whither   I   know  not,    and   yet   I   shall   be 

Wafted   down   thither. 


VALUES 


VALUES 


WOULD   you  hold  in  your  hand  the  first  flush 
Of  a   morning   in   spring  ? 
My   birds  are   all  birds   in   the   bush,  — 
How  sweetly  they  sing! 


II 

than  the  sharpened  sense 
J_J   Gained  of  hard  experience, 
Better  than   the   narrowed   self 
Centered   but   in   name  and   pelf, 
Is  the  vision  wide  of  youth 
Circled   by   no   bounds   but  truth. 


Ill 

There   came   to  him   a   radiant   Dream,  — 
It  flushed   his  cheek  and  then  was  gone. 
He   felt  the  tremor  of  its  wings, 
But  he  slept  on. 

155 


Values        There  came  a  Thought;    and   he  was  thrilled 

To  rap  ure  by  the  visioned   Thought. 
He  saw  the  Good   and   whence  it  springs; 
But  others  wrought. 

An   Impulse  touched   him  light  as  air; 

He  stooped   and   kissed   a  little   child. 
He  added  to  the  sum  of  things 

When  the  infant  smiled. 


V 

'•'By  heaven,   I  had  rather  coin   my  heart, 
And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas" 

FTIHE   form   and   substance  strangely  join, 
JL     And    Matter  subtly    blends   with    Will; 
Then   stamp   your  life  to  current  coin, 
And   let  it  jingle  in  the    till. 

The   gold   you   place   within   your  purse, 
'Tis  but  a  part  that  turns  the   beam ; 

The   Visible   is   life's   reverse, 

Its  obverse,    spirit,    thought,    and   dream. 


156 


Values        Then  melt  the  ore,   and  mix  and  mold, 

And  let  it  have  the  current  ring; 
And  stamp  it  into  deed  of  gold 
Fit  for  the  great  world's  trafficking. 


VI 

HE  thought  to  build  his  life  and  planned 
To  fashion  with  a  master  hand, 


But  trusting  to  himself  alone 
He  wept  above   a  heap  of  stone. 

So  now  the   ARCHITECT  has  planned. 
He  lays  each   stone  with   reverent  hand, 

Sees  not  what  domes  and  towers  shall  rise 
And  glitter  in  the  evening  skies, 

But  works  and  trusts,    and   knows   'twill   be 
A   temple  fitting,    fair  to  see. 


157 


Values  VII 

HT    IFE   it  floweth  like  a  stream"— 

J    J    Truly,    but  —  we   know   it. 
"Lives    like   barks   adrift,    adream, — " 
Guess  my  riddle,    poet: 

Some   with   banked  oars  smoothly  glide, 
With   the  current  going ; 

Some   the   eddies   draw  aside 
Spite   of   all   their   rowing. 

Round  they  whirl  and  round  and  round, 
Striving  for  the  middle; 

STRIVING  LOST  AND  TRUSTING  FOUND... 
"Life  may  solve  her  riddle, — 

"Life  may   solve  it.      Launch   aright, 
Trust   with   oar-beat  steady. 

Pull   away   with   gladsome   might 
From    undertow  and   eddy." 


158 


FROM  THK   HIU/TOP 

T~)ELOW,    the  city  lies   in  light, 

J )    Steeped   in  the  sunset  through   and   through, 

A   dream   in   gold  and   marble-white 
Encircled   with   a   bay  of   blue. 

Upward  ascend  the  vapors  curled,  — 

I   hear  the  lessening  toil  of  men ; 
I   have   my  vision  of  the  world, 

And   go  upon   my   way   again. 

For  be  it  truth  or  spell  of  sun, 
The  world-noise,    strident   bit   by   bit, 

Is   blent  and  molded  into  one, 
And   spheral  music  mellows  it. 


'59 


A   DIRGE 


the   Spirit;    sound   her  knell. 
1  J        Thus  begin: 
"Life   is  left,    but  is  it  well? 
Life  is  but  an  empty   shell; 
Nevermore  shall   Spirit  dwell 
Fair  within. 

"Laugh  aloud  the  fiends  of  hell, 

Peeping  in. 

'See  the  joyless  Soul,'  they  tell,  — 
'Trusted   Beauty!    did  she  well? 
Beauty   failed,    and   now  our  spell 

Binds  to  sin.'  " 

Dead   the  Spirit?      Nay,    not  so; 

Cease  the  knell. 
Evil   Soul  must  see  and  know 
Kre   to   fuller  life   she  grow, 
Spirit  sleep,    then   fairer  glow; 

All  is  well. 


160 


TO   OMAR   KHAYYAM 

Ah,    Omar,   sweet  and  strong  your  strain, 
But  life  is  sweeter,   stronger  still; 

Nearer  to  us  than  joy  or  pain, 

The  breathing  of  the  incarnate  will. 


T  READ   again  old   Persian   Omar's  lay 
JL     Dripping  with   ruby  wine  of  dim  To-day, 
And  mused  until  the  rising  winds  of  Mood 
Have  made   my   heart  a   harp  whereon  they   play. 

Out  of  the  formless  deeps  of  Soul  they   blow; 

Misty   with   shapes  and   weird   with   sounds  they  grow; 

Then  touching  on  the  strings  reverberant, 
On  to  the  formless  deeps  of  Soul  they  go. 


II 

ONCE,    Omar,    I  too  sought  with   rule  and  line 
A   human  soul  to  measure  and  define,  — 
161 


To   Omar  Strove  to  unweave  the  twisted  strands  of  fate 

Khayyam        And  separate   the   human  and  Divine. 

From   base   to  where   the   dizzying   turrets   ran, 
I   saw  a  great  life  builded   by   a  man; 

The  more   I  looked,    the  more   I  wondered  where 
The  human  ended  and  the  God   began. 

A   speck   of   foam   upon   a   breathing   sea, 
One  little  note  in   a  vast  harmony, 

A  son  who  looks  upon   his  father's  face,  — 
These  are  the  visions  of  the  ME  IN  THEE. 

Bubbles   that   from   the   sea's  own   substance   rise, 
A   son   with    radiance  from   his  father's  eyes, 

These  are  the  visions  of  the  THEE  IN   ME, 
But   Thou   art   nearer,    in  a  subtler  wise. 

Sons  —  but  the   father's  guiding   hand   is  o'er; 
Notes  —  but  the  harmony   is  these  and   more ; 
Bubbles  —  but  millions  on  the  sea  shall  rise 
And  the  great  sea  in   greater   fulness   roar. 


162 


A  little  note  —  its  music  lasts  not  long.  To  Omat 

A  little  note?      In  discord,   aye;    but  strong,  Khayyam 

Accordant  with  the  diapasoned  whole, 
It  breathes  enduring  entities  of  song, 

Which  move  along  in  simple  melody, 
Or,   organ-throated,   in  an  ample  key 

Of  deeds  that  wake  within  a  thousand  deeds 
Reverberations  rolling  endlessly. 

And  shall  the  one  clear  note  we  call  a  soul 
Make  discord  in  the  music  of  the  Whole? 

The  son  —  shall  he  abjure  his  heritage 
And  sell  his  birthright  for  an  empty  bowl? 


Ill 

T  SOUGHT  to  know  the  mystery  of  pain, 
JL.     And  long   I  peered  in  darkness,    but  in  vain, 

For  when  it  seemed   I  saw  a  little  light, 
A  door  was  closed,   and  all  was  dark  again. 

"Light  out  of  darkness,   joy  from  pain  shall  grow;" 
"Darkness  must  be  that  we  the  light  may  know." 
163 


To    Omar  But  ah,    the   long   long   while  !     and   why   was   built 

Khayyam        A   woria  ^th  such   broad   buttresses  of  woe? 


Why   can  the  lark   not  sing  and   rear  her  brood 
Save  on   the   poor  lives  of  a  multitude? 

Why   must  there  die  that   I   may   move  or  breathe, 
A   million  cells  —  for  my   so  little  good  ? 

"But  if  the  cellf  could   wake  and   dimly  see 
Within  the  threshold  of  the  greater  ME,—" 

The  door  was  closed,    deep   in   my   heart   I   heard, 
"If  soul   but  wake,    can   pain  and   evil  be?" 


IV 

rpHOSE  thirsty   pots  of  Ramazdn,   which  thou, 
JL     Old   Omar,    knewest,  —  the  unbeliever's  plow 

Has  dug  them   from  the  dust  of   Naishapur: 
"Tis  moonlight ;    they  are   not  loquacious  now. 

The  grass   has  grown   above  the   broken   heap 
And   sunk   its   roots   in   crack   and    *e««hrc   deep, 

And   in  the  moonlight  on  the  moveless  spears 
The  dew-drops   hang  like  silver  stars  —  asleep. 

164 


And  of  the  hanging  drops,    some  seven  or  eight  To   Omar 

Have  slid  on  the  last  whole  pipkin's  side  and  sate—         Khayyam 
Imbibing  the  loquacity  of  the  pots — 
In  judgment  on  the  doubtful    things  of  fate. 

"Congealed   from  out  the  Nothing,"  one  began, 
"Reflecting  borrowed  light  a  little  span, 

Then  fading  to  the  Nothing  whence  we  sprung, 
What  is  the  purpose,   pray,   and  what  the  plan?" 

Another  spoke:     "What  talk  of  ME  and  THEE? 
Vibrations  of  the  Nothing  make  the   ME. 

The  light  and  whence  it  comes  are  nothing  else 
Than  whirlings  of  the  Nothing  such  as  we." 

An   elder:     "Can   the   heart  of   Nothing   ache? 
And  thought  for  the  to-morrow  can  it  take? 

Hear;    the  dim  truths  at  my  conglobing  learned 
And  in  my   essence  mirrored,    I  will  speak. 

1  The  smallest  part  that  forms  these  globes  of  ours 
(Compounded  how  and  by  what  greater  Powers?) 
Reflects  —  and  not  less  truly  than  the  whole  — 

Orion  and  the  pomp  of  rolling  stars. 

165 


To   Omar       "And  when   the  subtile,    all-pervading   Sun 
Khayyam        The  bond  has  loosed  ^^  binds  us  into  one> 


What  sweeter  Influence  shall  rule  us  then!  — 
What  pulsings  that  through  all  Creation  run  ! 

"When   I  upon  the  swaying   mists  of  morn, 
Or  on  the  breezes  of  the  valley   borne, 

Shall  faint  with  scents  of  every  garden  rose 
And  toss  and  tremble  with  the  rustling  com; 

"Or  when  in  crimson  splendors  deep   I  lie 
Behind  the  bastions  of  the  sunset  sky, 

And   feel  the  trembling  of  the  utmost  star, 
Shall   I  not  feel  and  know  that   I   am    I?" 

He  spoke:     the  sky   grew  ruddy   with   the  dawn; 
Above,    the  moon  still  rode  —  but  ah,    how  wan  !  — 

The  long  slant  sunbeams  woke  the  world  and   fell 
Athwart  the  pebbled  plains  of  wide   Iran. 

I   heard   a  sigh  —  it  seemed  of  jars  athirst  — 

And  groans  (I  know  not  if  they   blessed  or  cursed.) 

I  looked  upon  the  heap;    the  drops  were  gone, 
And  lo,    the   Sufi  pipkin's  sides  were  burst. 

166 


V  To   Omar 

A  THOUGHT  took  form.      It  builded  walls  of  stone       Khayyam 
It  summoned,    for  it  would  not    dwell  alone, 
All  Thought,   all  Wisdom,    and  they   dwelt  therein 
Subdued  to  music  of  the  master-tone. 

It  strove  with   men  to  make  them  truly  wise; 
New  light  it  kindled  in  a  thousand  eyes; 

It  touched  the  ailing   Hour  and   healed  it, — helped 
The  weak  and  trodden  under  foot  to  rise. 

A  sculptor  wrought  in  stone,   and,    bit  by   bit, 
Day  after  day   he  shaped  the  dream  that  lit 
His  own  poor  life  until  the  life  he  missed 
Grew  in  the  statue  and  transfigured  it. 

In  loneliness  of  art  the  statue  stood; 

And  he,    a  maker,    saw  and  called  it  good; 

When  lo,   the  dream  that  lit  his  life  afar 
Had  entered  and   become  as  flesh  and  blood. 

"Yes,   but  a  breath,    the  walls  of  stone  decay: 
The  dreamer  and  the  statue,    where  are  they? 


167 


To   Omar       And   he   who  nursed   and  nurtured  this  high  thought, 
Khayyam        wfao  loyed  and   stroye  and   hoped   hig  1Utle  day) 


"Has  vanished,   and  the  wide  world   knows  him  not,  — 
His  hopes,    his  deeds,    and   name  alike   forgot. 

Another  breath,    the   seeming   solid   earth 
Gone  like  a  bubble  —  or  an  empty  thought." 

Well,   let   him   vanish   when   his  work   is  done; 
The  Form   be  melted  and   a  new   begun; 

Let  the  earth's  self   be  shattered   into  bits 
That  from   the  wreck  may   rise  a  fairer  one. 

The   Visible  is   fleeting  as  a  breath, 
The  Form   is  fragile  and   it  perisheth  ; 

Onlyjlthe  WORD,    the  mighty   upward  trend, 
The  buoyant   Pulse  and   Impulse,    knows   not  death. 

From  nebula  to  rounded  worlds  it  ran; 

From  clod    it  groped  to  monad,    mollusk,    man; 

And  the  first  son  of  light,    shall  he  first  turn 
His  face  to  darkness  and   deny   the  Plan  ?  — 


168 


Or  shall   he  pluck  the  lily   from   the   weed  To    Omar 

And  the  green  scum  ?  —  a  man,  whom  thought  has  freed  ?  ayyam 

On  to  the  Deep  and  let  the  two  be   blent, 
The  tides  of  Being  and  the  living   Deed, — 

Then,    if  we  should  be  only  shapes  that  seem  — 
Our  three-score-ten  a  momentary  gleam 

On  darkness  —  we  have  lived  accordant  lives, 
Nor  made  them   broken   dreams  within  a  dream. 


A  million  moons  shall  wax  and  wane; 

Nor  ends  the   Game:    then  boldly  play, 

And  if  you  lose  or  if  you  win, 

Stay  on  until  the  stars  are  wan 

And  hills  are  purpling  with  the  dawn, 

Then  yield  your  place  and  go  your  way. 

You've  played,   rejoiced;    there's  naught  to  rue; 
The  game  goes  on,   nor  ends  with  you. 


169 


THE  CASTLE   OF  AUTREMEME 


I  gan  to  this  place  aproche 

That  stood  upon  so  high  a  roche, 

Hyer  stant  ther  noon  in  Spayne. 

HOUSE  OF  FAME. 


THE  CAS1XE  OF  AUTREMEME 

Upon  the  height  it  gleamcth  far, 
At  noon  in  white,    at  eve  a  star ; 
But  when  the  crimson  sunset  glows, 
In  golden  light  it  grows  and  grows 
Against  the  flaming  clouds  that  are 
Resplendent  for  the  perfect  close. 

A  VOICE   resounded  through  the  halls; 
It  shook  the  panes  and  painted  walls: 
"Go,    seek  the  castle  on  the  height 
That  at  the  midnoon  glittereth  white, 
That  gleams  in  gold  when  sunset  falls, 
And   shines  an  amber  star  at  night." 

The  summons  heard   Sir  Tanelot; 
The  echoes  three  he  heeded  not: 
"The  way  is  long  and   dark  the   night; 
There  findeth   the  castle  no  mortal  wight 
Save  who,    forgetting,    is  forgot; 
It  flitteth  left,    it  flitteth   right." 


173 


The   Castle  They  saddled   his  steed   right  richly   set 

of  Autrememc  with  doth  of     old  and  bafb  of     et 


The  knight  in  armor  leaped  thereon, 
(A   red   rose  grew  by   the  mounting-stone) 
He  passed   the  looming  parapet 
And   rode  into  the  setting  sun. 

Behind   him   stretched   his  shadow  grim; 

The  far-off  mountains  beckoned   him: 

Their  slopes  were  smit  with  lengthened   light 

Their  surnmits  glittered  lambent  white 

Of  silver  with   a  golden  rim 

That  dipped  and  dimmed  and   faded   quite. 

But   high   aloft  the  castle  stood: 

It  dimmed   not  with   the  darkened   wood, 

But  gleamed   in  splendor  lone  and   far 

Against  the  blue  without  a  scar, 

Till  hill  and  valley,    field  and   flood 

Were   blotted  out,  —  then  shone,    a  star. 

Then   rose  the  blood-red   moon   behind; 
Afar  and   faintly   wailed  a   wind. 
Nearer  and   nearer  its   moaning  drew  ; 
174 


To  spoken  sounds  and  sobs  it  grew:  The  Castle 

"Who  hears  we  loose,  who  hearkens  we  bind,"—    of  Autrememe 
The  castle  light  was  hid  from  view. 

Upon  the  wind  the  voices  sped, 

But  giant  Horrors   rose  instead. 

Their  names  and  number  who  shall  tell, 

Or  where  they  fought  or  how  they  fell? 

His  shield  was  dinted,    his  sword  was  red 

At  length   'twas  dawn,   and  all  was  well. 

And  lo,   there  loomed  the  castle  wall'; 
The  warder  answered  his  bugle  call. 
He  passed  the  portal  whereon  was  writ  — 
But  he  read  not  the  writing  for  all  his  wit. 
They  led   his  wearied  steed  to  stall, 
Yet  naught  was  strange  himseeme'd  it. 

Rich  and  rare  yet  naught  was  new: 
By  the  mounting-stone  a  red  rose  grew, 
But  the  skies  above  and  the  fields  below, 
And  the  castle,   were  filled  with  a  golden  glow, 
For  thus  was  the  writing  and    the  words  were  true, 
Though   he  read  them  not  and   could  not    know: 
175 


The   Castle  "This  is  the  castle  of   Autrememe: 

of  Autretneme 


Here,    traveler,    rest  thee  a  day  and  a  night, 
Then   seek  the  castle  glittering   white  ____  " 
At  sunset  in   a  golden   flame 
The  turret  gleamed   upon   the  height. 


176 


NOTES 

PAGE    28 

In  the  first  and  second  lines  of  this  sonnet  there  is  an  unin 
tentional  echo  from  "Hyperion" — 

"I  stood  upon  a  shore,  a  pleasant  shore." 

It  seemed  to  me  altogether  better  to  let  the   lines   stand   with   an 
explanation  than  to  change  them  to  avoid  comment. 

PAGE    85 

In  "Bartolome  Ruiz"  I  do  not  pretend  to  the  accuracy  of 
a  translation.  It  takes  a  resolute  abnegation  of  self  and  a  rare 
listening  patience  to  reproduce  in  a  foreign  tongue  both  the  solid 
substance  and  the  volatile  spirit  of  a  poem.  My  fellow  towns 
man  Mr.  Edward  R.  Taylor  has  succeded  so  well  in  putting  into 
English  both  the  body  and  the  spirit  of  the  "Trophies"  of  Heredia 
of  which  the  original  of  my  sonnet  is  part,  that  I  am  glad  to  ex 
press  here  my  appreciation  for  his  work. 

PAGE    144 

"Baron"  Stiegel  was  a  picturesque  character  of  Revolutionary 
times, —  a  man  of  many  activities  and  interests,  somewhat  eccen 
tric,  but  with  the  good  of  his  workmen  and  his  community  at 
heart.  Among  his  benefactions  is  the  gift  of  a  plot  of  ground  for  a 
church  at  a  rent  of  one  red  rose  yearly,  to  be  paid  in  the  month 
of  June  whenever  the  donor  or  his  heirs  shall  demand  payment. 
The  payment  of  the  rose  has  in  recent  years  been  made  the 
occasion  for  a  celebration. 

In  the  ups  and  downs  of  the  Revolution,  Stiegel  lost  his 
property.  He  was  imprisoned  for  debt  and  on  his  release  sup 
ported  himself  bravely  by  teaching  the  children  of  the  men  who 
had  worked  on  his  estates  and  at  his  furnaces. 

PAGE  161. 

It  seems  impossible  that  Omar  Khayy&m  will  always  cover 
so  much  of  the  literary  horizon  as  he  has  covered  in  recent 
years.  His  philosophy  can  not  fit  permanently  a  civilization  in 
which  the  original  stock  of  play-energy  is  so  far  from  being  spent 

177 


sa  it  is  in  the  Germanic  civilization,  and  that  is  so  surely  on 
the  way  to  being  pervaded  by  the  good-will  —  by  the  simple, 
glad,  childlike  doing— implicit  in  Christianity.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  so  long  as  the  poignant  spiritual  unrest  remains,  Omar  wil 
feed  it;  and,  still  more  truly,  so  long  as  the  tenseness  brought 
about  by  modern  social  conditions  remains,  the  large  ease  of  Fitz 
gerald's  treatment  and  the  long  vibration  of  his  verse  will  soothe 
and  satisfy,  and  refutations  of  the  Rubaiyat  will  be  either  high- 
pitched  or  they  will  be  mathematically  dull.  Omar  loses  more 
through  the  multitude  of  imitations,  parodies,  and  adaptations 
than  through  arguments  and  verses  directed  against  him. 


A  word  upon  the  plan  of  the  book  may  not  be  out  of  place. 
I  have  grouped  the  poems  not  so  much  to  secure  an  artistic  effect 
as  to  reveal  what  appears,  however  dimly,  in  all  art  work  not 
hemmed  in  by  theories, —  an  outline  of  life  and  a  progressive 
criticism  upon  it.  To  be  sure  the  outline  is  fragmentary  and  the 
criticism  partial,  for  although  the  whole  of  life  is  musical,  the 
gamut  we  run  is  kept  narrow  enough  within  the  range  of  our  ex 
perience  and  intuition,  and  our  time  is  not  all  given  to  the 
conscious  making  of  music.  Nor,  laying  aside  these  obvious 
limitations,  have  I  tried  to  fit  thought  and  feeling  into  inexorable 
categories.  I  have  let  the  poems  fall  into  some  sort  of  order  in 
an  approximation  to  what  seemed  to  me  when  they  were  written 
a  just  and  central  conception  of  a  man's  relation  to  his  surround 
ings,  —  arranging,  as  it  were,  a  few  details  of  the  story  of  this 
wrestling  match  of  ours  in  the  dawn.  In  the  sense  of  forming 
part  of  a  plan,  all  of  the  work  is  dramatic,  although  that  which 
is  dramatic  in  a  fuller  sense  also  has  a  place,  and  even  in  work 
that  is  farthest  from  a  full  and  concrete  expression  of  truth,  I  trust 
there  will  not  be  entirely  absent  a  distant  murmur  of  what  is 
more  real  than  any  poem. 

Finally,  I  do  not  mean  by  these  hints  of  plan  and  purpose  to 
disarm  criticism  on  the  poems.  Each  poem  is  set  forth  as  a  work 
of  art,  and  as  such  it  must  stand  or  fall  alone. 

San    Francisco,   April   21,   1902.  C.   B. 

178 


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